By Your Works
by OldStoneface
Summary: SEQUEL to "From Dust to Flesh" - Lady Myria Lejean wishes nothing more than to be human. Unfortunately life cares not for our wishes. Between greedy peers, prickly wizards, suspicious watchmen, puzzled gods, and worse... a very interested Lord Vetinari, it's hard to see how she can navigate the minefield that is Ankh Morpork society and keep her sanity intact.
1. Reality Bites

**[A/N: If you have already read my other stories, welcome back! **

**If you haven't read my first story about Myria LeJean titled ****"From Dust to Flesh"** then please con- *hrkch*

_Greetinth. Thith ith your friendly Crocodile God, Offler. I'm afraid I have been forthed to temporarily take pothethion of the author in order to bring you a very important commandment, ath the pathetic mortal ith far too nithe about it. _

_Haven't read "From Dutht to Fleth" yet? Then THTOP reading right thith moment, or I thall curth you mightily with hard water thtainth, clogged pipeth, and you don't even want to think about a thwim in any riverth. Get me? And now back our regular programming. ALL HAIL ME!**  
**_

***cough sputter* Oh geez. sorry about that! You do one little summoning... anyway. Offler (may his tail never fall off) is right, if pushy. If you haven't already, please read "From Dust to Flesh" first, this story will ****not make as much sense and will contain spoilers for that story. You can get to that story quickly by clicking on my profile link above.  
**

**And of course, I do not own any of Pratchett's world or characters. Enjoy!]  
**

_[Updated 2/14/13 with minor improvements]_

* * *

**Reality Bites**

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of Ankh Morpork, there is a soft silence.

Small Gods cemetery has long been the final rest of those not wealthy enough to afford a more respectable repose, or of those perhaps unwilling to commit to one of the more prominent gods. It's no wonder that it also happens to be the final post for many members of the City Watch, so to speak; men and women who have seen far too much to have much faith in anything, and make far too little money to afford better.

Perhaps it isn't a coincidence that this quiet corner most favored by the lowly watchmen, was also the recent scene of much excitement. The perpetrators of all this do-ish-ness are now respectively in various states of pain, empathy and grudging sympathy.

The pain resides firmly in the ribcage[1] of one Jonathon Knäcke, who until recently was possessed of a complete set of ribs and a sturdy, if somewhat commonplace, sternum. That is until he was struck by the noble and damn-fool idea of playing the hero by using his chest as a shield to save his lady-love. As a result, he discovered that while love may be stronger than oak, when struck by the heavy and unnaturally speeding Weapon of Crass Destruction called The Poker, it is bound to come out second-best.

Having cracked several ribs, torn various cartilages, and bruised a few internal organs in the bargain, he can hopefully be forgiven if he is not his usual expressive self.

"Gnagghahg!" is the closest approximation to the sound he made as he writhed about on the lush grass, as one of the other two seemed intent on pressing and poking about his body's most painful injuries.

"I am sorry Jonathon! Truly! But I must understand what exactly is damaged if I am to help!" This exclamation came from the second participant. Lady Myria LeJean had only recently become acquainted with the concept of empathy (and in fact had not had any emotions whatsoever only a few months prior), and was finding it distracting and difficult to deal with.

She was also wracked with another emotion. She knew that Jonathon's current condition was due to his saving her own life. And watching him suffer so, it was becoming more clear to her what she had managed to avoid due to his sacrifice and it was causing a troubling mix of emotions that included relief and gratitude that he had saved her, sadness and concern for him, and surprisingly what she was deciding was a strange sort of irritated guilt. _This_, she decided, _would bear further evaluation when she had a quiet moment to reflect. _

And so we come to the third of the trio. Lady Susan Sto Helit.

"This is ridiculous." Susan crossed her arms and frowned. "I've seen your Auditor cousins create bodies from scratch, surely this should be child's play for you to mend? It is not as if he is seriously wounded."

Susan appeared to be successfully fighting off an acute attack of sympathy. And she had seen far too much death (as well as Death) in her lifetime to be very good at bedside manner[2].

"Not ser- ahh!" Jonathon gasped as Myria's probing fingers found another way to show that love does, indeed, hurt like the dickens at times.

"Fine," Susan continued, her eyes rolling and mouth a hardened line, "I'm sure it _feels_ serious to Mr. Knäcke, but my question still stands." In addition to not being the most sympathetic person in the world, Susan also had the complete inability to be distracted from a point of inquiry. This particular skill was honed by spending most of her time as a teacher of very young children.[3]

"I am sure that I can." Myria pulled her hands away and sat back on her heels. "That is, I feel that _should_ be able to do so." She shook her head slightly side to side. "I do not believe I am answering your question."

Susan raised her eyebrows. "No you aren't, and extra credit for admitting it."

"Perhaps…" Myria hesitated again, chewing her lower lip. "Perhaps I fear that I will make a mistake and do something to damage him further?"

Susan snorted. "You are asking my _opinion_? I'm sure you best know your own mind."

"No… I suppose it _would_ make no sense to ask your opinion. You are not as informed as I in this matter."

The last comment was slightly irritating, even if true. Susan had become used to knowing more than most people around her, and the alternative rankled a bit. "You don't have to put it _that_ way, but yes you're probably right." She paused as Jonathon moaned again. "Regardless, either you need to do something quickly, or we need to find a physicker for him. We can't move him like this, he'll be screaming the entire way."

"I believe it would be more dire than that. He has several fractured ribs that could break fully were we to attempt his transport, and I believe they could puncture something necessary for his vitality." Susan rolled her eyes, wondering how many years it would take before Myria learned to ease up a bit on the vocabulary. "I will try again," Myria continued, took a deep breath, brought her hands back to Jonathon's ribcage and closed her eyes.

She could _feel, _in a strange visceral way, the damaged tissue and cracked ribs beneath her fingers, and intuitively she _understood_ what it should feel like undamaged. She looked into the darkness behind the eyes and found she could build a picture, in her head, of what these things should look like. She could _see_ how the torn muscle and cartilage, the fractured bone should fit back together.

All that was required was for her to, as she had so many times before, _will_ reality to adjust slightly to her desire, and remake itself as she wished. The seductive ease of doing things like this was part of her being, and also had gotten her into trouble several times thus far.

Unfortunately, just when the need was greatest, reality seemed to be a bit fed up with her at the moment. Instead of behaving itself, it was acting like a four year old, hanging onto the hypothetical doorframe of the washroom of existence, and absolutely refusing to be dragged to the soapy bath of eternity.

In other words, reality was having none of her tinkering. Susan had said she should know her own mind best in this. But now it seemed perhaps not.

Frustrated, Myria drove herself more deeply into the darkness, pushed harder against that resistance with an effort that was almost painful… the moment stretched out. Time itself seemed to slow to a crawl and her thoughts felt like they were swimming through treacle… until suddenly the resistance broke, and she heard a corresponding gasp from Jonathon. In her mind's eye, she saw muscle fibers knit, tears in cartilage disappear, and cracks in bone seal. Not all the damage, but enough that she could hear his breathing ease. She had done enough.

Unfortunately the strain seemed to have left her with a slight feeling of discomfort behind her eyes that seemed to be slowly reaching towards the back of her skull. Regardless, she let her breath out with a gasp, and opened her eyes to see Susan glancing back and forth between her and Jonathon with some concern.

She turned her eyes to Jonathon's face. "Is that better?"

He took a tentative deep breath, grimaced, and let some of it out before answering. "Definitely. It still hurts, but I feel like I can breathe without screaming now. _Gods_ you are a wonder, Myria. Thank you."

Myria frowned "I…" She winced and frowned a bit deeper as the sound of her own voice triggered a twinge somewhere in the interior of her skull, and continued. "I am not sure thanks are necessary. You would not have been harmed had you not been attempting to save me."

Susan cleared her throat. "Myria, that seemed to take some effort on your part. Are you alright?"

Myria rubbed her hand across the back of her head, but could feel no outward sign of any damage. "My head hurts somewhat. It seems to keep time with my circulatory system's function." She dropped her hand. "It is not pleasant."

Susan seemed slightly relieved, perhaps even a little amused. "It's called a headache Myria, humans get them all the time. Usually it means you have exerted yourself or spent one too many minutes in the company of someone unpleasant." She lifted one corner of her mouth a bit more. "I'm not sure what it would mean for you, considering present company."

"Perhaps I am becoming more human than before. The process was… difficult. I have never had a head ache before."

"Well I suppose you have to take the bad with the good. We can get some willowbark tea for you once we have Mr. Knacke home. " She considered. "Or perhaps you could use the same trick to get rid of it now?"

Myria considered trying, but shook the thought away, which action seemed only to worsen the sensation. Trying to make reality jump to her own tune was what brought this head ache on in the first place. She suspected trying to make it go away using the same method that caused it would not have the desired result. "No. No I do not believe that would be advisable."

"Fine then. Let's get Mr. Knäcke to his bed so he can finish healing up. I suspect you both will have a lot to deal with in the next few days, if the manner of the City Watch was anything to go by."

Between the two of them, with only a little complaining and sobbing from Jonathon, a little grumbling from Susan, and a Myria preoccupied with her new human 'affliction', they managed to prop Jonathon up and assist him out of Small Gods Cemetery where they could flag down a coach to take them all to the Bakery on Body Street where, hopefully, a bed and some willowbark tea would follow in short order. Several days of bed rest for Jonathon would be a treat as well.

Unfortunately, it seemed that reality, or perhaps fate, had other ideas.

* * *

[1] And cheek. And diaphragm. Though at least for the moment, the pain of having a semi-petrified hand breaking his cheekbone had been far buried under the much greater pain of cracked ribs.

[2] Much less graveside manner.

[3] For a teacher, the survival value of that kind of mental focus can't be overestimated. According to Bob's Theory of Devolution, the survival rate of a teacher of youngsters is inversely proportional to how easily distracted said teacher is. For example, one who misses the presence of a tack in ones chair has a career expectancy measured in weeks. Not noticing that one of the little scamps has put _Doctore Wholesome's Alle Naturale Purgative_ in one's coffee provides a more dramatic problem to deal with.

* * *

**[A/N: In case you weren't aware, authors just *LIVE* for feedback. Sure, we can see how many people view the stuff we write, but we have no idea whether they actually like it. So take pity on me and either send me a Private Message (PM) or write a public review and let me know what you thought, what you liked or didn't like. Thanks!]**


	2. The Fickle Finger

_[Updated 2/14/13 for minor improvements and more footnotes (!)]_

**The Fickle Finger**

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of the Disc, there is a tense silence.

In a white marble hall, a dozen or so persons are gathered around an equally white marble table. White marble benches are scattered here and there, though no one is using them. White marble plinths[1] hold white marble vases or white marble busts.

Had this been roundworld, there would be numerous documentaries about the eccentric trillionaire who had more money than wits and built an entire mansion out of butter, before he woke up one day convinced he was a giant ear of corn and tragically ate himself to death.

However this is the Discworld. Instead of money, it is Faith that is the coin these persons possess. And while they have sense enough not to build their domain out of a food substance, there is a similar tinge of insanity in building an entire realm out of a decorative rock that shows every little smudge. _What_, one wonders, _will happen if one day they wake up and decide they are a hammer and chisel?_

Regardless, our aforementioned persons are not sitting and enjoying the architecture, but instead standing crowded around the Game table. All are leaning in with various expressions of frustration, amusement, concern, disappointment, or affected boredom.

On the table stand various figures. Mere mortals, even the most astute and bloodthirsty politician, would have a difficult time understanding how the figures placement represented their interactions in the world of men.[2] Some pieces, like the severe-looking young female figurine with a streak of black in her hair and holding a cast-iron bar, were not only unwilling participants, but actively resisted being someone else's pawn. Only the mightiest of the gods at the table dared try to bend The Governess to their will. Usually they just tried to play around her or, failing that, pretended she wasn't on the board and hoped their prize piece wouldn't get brained by The Poker[3] at some point. Anoia, Goddess of Things Stuck Drawers, actually suggested at one point it be given its own piece on the board. It was not a popular suggestion. No one in the group liked the thought of The Poker running about on its own, smiting things. It might end up being worshipped and next thing you know it would be hanging out in their favorite pub.

Other Game pieces, of varying power and usefulness, were unwitting but malleable tools in the Great Game. For example, the broad-shouldered watchman piece with a transparent crown on his head had figured into many a pleasant evening, but the Crowned Watchman was a piece that had to be used with care lest it upset the balance of the competition.

The Lady tended to favor the watchman, and often used him to devastating effect.

As with many instances of the Game, many of the lesser gods had found themselves outmaneuvered, neutralized, or worst case, their pieces eliminated or coopted as the Game wore on. When your only piece on the board is a colony of educated rats, it's kind of tough to compete with the big boys controlling entire armies.

In the end, sessions of the Game often came down to a standoff between The Lady, Fate, and a handful of the other more powerful gods.

And there were the newer pieces on the board. The Baker, who started out a minor piece controlled by Levandus, the God of Yeast and Other Things That Swell When Heated[4], changed hands several times, passing through the ownership of Errata the Goddess of Misunderstandings and a handful of other minor gods. In the end, it appeared that the Baker was playing a key role in this session of the Game.

And then there was the newest piece of all. The Grey Lady sat in the middle of the board, and Fate glared at it like a bit of dog mess left in the middle of the room. He had maneuvered it carefully through the early game, and all had gone according to plan, until it had come into contact with the Baker, and then everything had gone to the Dungeon Dimensions on him. Now he wasn't sure whether he even controlled the piece any more.

The Grey Lady shouldn't even _exist_ at this point. Even worse, it was not only taking all the fun out of the Game, now he could see that it had distorted the entire board like a heavy weight placed on a rubber sheet.[5] Fiddling with reality was their gig. Twice now, he had felt himself cheated, and turned his displeasure on the Baker, and thence to Errata.

"You are taking liberties, Errata. I am surprised after that business with Tsort that you are so willing to extend your hand."

"I? There must be some misunderstanding." She smiled as he winced. "I lost control of that piece not long after The Governess re-entered the Game." She turned up the corner of her mouth further and raised an eyebrow at The Lady.

The Lady looked smug, but shook her head. "Do not look to me. I have been able to have some minor influence perhaps, but I lay no claim to ownership of that one." While she was always happy to see Fate get a bit of comeuppance, she had no interest in claiming credit for the work of others.

"Then who dares? _Twice_ now. _Twice_ the Baker has been used to delay the Grey Lady's removal from the board, and now that piece is distorting the Game itself."

"You know it, baby," came from the back of the group.

Fate's anger ratcheted up a few degrees and he directed it in the direction of the voice. "_What_?! Who was that?"

Several of the higher status gods moved aside, revealing the speaker to Fate's ire. The recipient of his glare turned on an oblivious five-thousand-watt smile and subtly shifted to show off his best side.

Fate sighed, his anger dissipating despite himself. "Seriously Rod, don't you have some teenagers to torment? Perhaps a Music-with-Rocks-In concert to hang out backstage at, or some puppy eyes to practice?

The God of Infatuation's smile faltered for a moment, then came back with full force. "Come on man, lighten up. Just having a little harmless crush, right?"

"_A little harmless crush!_? Did you not sense the ripples? First these upstart Auditors attempt to stop time, halting all _worship_ in the process..." that caused the entire pantheon to wince, save perhaps for The Lady "…which threw us all into a sort of stasis for several hours, and now _this_." He swept the room with his right arm. "We _all_ felt the backlash from the event in the cemetery. That piece is now a liability to the Game, thanks to your 'harmless crush'. Why don't you try using your head for once instead of your hormones?"

"Sorry man, gotta follow your feelings you know. My head said stay out of it, but my heart said go with what feels good right now." He brightened further. "Did you see how the Grey Lady reacted to the Crowned Watchman? That was a thing of beauty. She was stumbling toward him like a lovesick groupie!"

Fate regarded Rod soberly. Gods did not generally go for such gestures as 'facepalm', but he suddenly understood the allure. The God of Infatuation loved to meddle in the Great Game, but could never stay focused on one goal or a given piece for more than a few hours at a time. As a result, you could usually just ignore his pieces as they self-destructed dramatically. Except _this_ time when it seemed he had gotten luc-

_Of course._ Fate sighed again and turned to The Lady.

"So, I assume that the Grey Lady belongs to you at the moment?" The Lady smiled enigmatically, and his mouth tightened. "It is to be that kind of game is it? Fine." _Perhaps, he mused, it is time to bring out a more reliable weapon. _Gesturing to the board, a new piece materialized near the center of the board. The Injured Lord was his most reliably powerful piece, one that could always be counted upon to follow his will.

"Perhaps it is time the Grey Lady learns what happens with one tries to join noble society without _true_ noble blood."

* * *

[1] A plinth is like a small column, used for a display stand, but with more saliva (especially when Offler says it).

[2] We are using the word "men" very loosely here, and in fact it includes men, women, people of indeterminate gender, people who haven't figured out their gender, trolls, dwarves, werewolves, vampires, igors, pictsies, and a practically infinite number of various one-offs. (Including Mrs. Cake. _Don't ask_.)

[3] That damned thing was potent enough to deserve capitalization.

[4] Oddly enough, also a very popular god with newlyweds…

[5] Why one would place a heavy weight on a rubber sheet, much less why one would have a rubber sheet, is not a matter we wish to dwell on.

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of the Disc, there is a tense silence.

In a white marble hall, a dozen or so persons are gathered around an equally white marble table. White marble benches are scattered here and there, though no one is using them. White marble plinths[1] hold white marble vases or white marble busts.

Had this been roundworld, there would be numerous documentaries about the eccentric trillionaire who had more money than wits and built an entire mansion out of butter, before he woke up one day convinced he was a giant ear of corn and tragically ate himself to death.

However this is the Discworld. Instead of money, it is Faith that is the coin these persons possess. And while they have sense enough not to build their domain out of a food substance, there is a similar tinge of insanity in building an entire realm out of a decorative rock that shows every little smudge. _What_, one wonders, _will happen if one day they wake up and decide they are a hammer and chisel?_

Regardless, our aforementioned persons are not sitting and enjoying the architecture, but instead standing crowded around the gametable. All are leaning in with various expressions of frustration, amusement, concern, disappointment, or affected boredom.

On the table stand various figures. Mere mortals, even the most astute and bloodthirsty politician, would have a difficult time understanding how the figures' placement represented their interactions in the world of men.[2] Some pieces, like the severe-looking young female figurine with a streak of black in her hair and holding a cast-iron bar, were not only unwilling participants, but actively resisted being someone else's pawn. Only the mightiest of the gods at the table dared try to bend The Governess to their will. Usually they just tried to play around her or, failing that, pretended she wasn't on the board and hoped their prize piece wouldn't get brained by The Poker at some point. That damn thing was potent enough to deserve capitalization. Anoia, Goddess of Things That Stick in Drawers, actually suggested at one point it be given its own piece on the board. It was not a popular suggestion. No one in the group liked the thought of The Poker running about on its own smiting things. It might end up being worshipped and hanging out in their favorite pub.

Other pieces, of varying power and usefulness, were unwitting but malleable tools in the Great Game. For example, the broad-shouldered watchman piece with a transparent crown on his head had figured into many a pleasant evening, but the Crowned Watchman was a piece that had to be used with care lest it upset the balance of The Game.

The Lady tended to favor the watchman, and often used him to devastating effectiveness.

As with many instances of The Game, many of the lesser gods found themselves outmaneuvered, neutralized, or worst case, their pieces eliminated or co-opted as The Game wore on. When your only piece on the board is a colony of educated rats, it's kind of tough to compete with the big boys controlling entire armies.

In the end, sessions of The Game often came down to a standoff between The Lady, Fate, and a handful of the other more powerful gods.

And there were the newer pieces on the board. The Baker, who started out a minor piece controlled by Levandus, the God of Yeast and Other Things That Swell When Heated, changed hands several times, passing through the hands of Errata the Goddess of Misunderstandings and a handful of other minor gods. In the end, it appeared that it played a key role in The Game.

And then there was the newest piece. The Grey Lady sat in the middle of the board, and Fate glared at it like a bit of dog mess left in the middle of the room. He had maneuvered it carefully through the early game, and all had gone according to plan, until it had come into contact with The Baker, and then everything had gone to the Dungeon Dimensions on him. Now he wasn't sure whether he even controlled the piece any more.

The Grey Lady shouldn't even exist at this point. Even worse, it was not only taking all the fun out of The Game, now he could see that it had distorted the entire board like a heavy weight placed on a rubber sheet.[3] Fiddling with reality was **_their_** gig. Twice now, he had felt himself cheated, and turned his displeasure on The Baker, and thence to Errata.

"You are taking liberties, Errata. I am surprised after that business with Tsort that you are so willing to extend your hand."

"I? There must be some misunderstanding." She smiled as he winced. "I lost control of that piece not long after The Governess re-entered The Game." She turned up the corner of her mouth and raised an eyebrow at The Lady.

She looked smug, but shook her head. "Do not look to me. I have been able to have some minor influence perhaps, but I lay no claim to ownership of that one." While she was always happy to see Fate get a bit of comeuppance, she had no interest in claiming credit for the work of others.

"Then who dares? _Twice_ now. _Twice_ the Baker has been used to delay the Grey Lady's removal from the board, and now that piece is distorting The Game itself."

"You know it, baby," came from the back of the group.

Fate's anger ratcheted up a few degrees and he directed it in the direction of the voice. "_What_?! Who was that?"

Several of the higher status gods moved aside, revealing the speaker to Fate's rage. The recipient of that glare turned on an oblivious 5000 watt smile and subtly shifted to show off his best side.

Fate sighed, his anger dissipating despite himself. "Seriously Rod, don't you have some teenagers to torment? Perhaps a Music-with-Rocks-In concert to hang out backstage at or some puppy eyes to practice?

The God of Infatuation's smile faltered for a moment, then came back with full force. "Come on man, lighten up. Just having a little harmless crush, right?"

"_A little harmless crush!_? Did you not sense the ripples? First these upstart Auditors attempt to stop time, halting all _worship_ in the process..." that caused the entire pantheon to wince, save perhaps for The Lady "… which threw us all into a sort of stasis for several hours, and now _this_." He swept the room with his right arm. "We _all_ felt the surge from the event in the cemetery. That piece is now a liability to The Game, thanks to your 'harmless crush'. Why don't you try using your head for once instead of your hormones?"

"Sorry man, gotta follow your feelings you know. My head said stay out of it, but my heart said go with what feels good right now." He brightened further. "Did you see how the Grey Lady reacted to the Crowned Watchman? That was a thing of beauty. She was almost following him around like a lovesick groupie!"

Fate regarded Rod soberly. Gods did not generally go for such gestures as 'facepalm' before, but he now understood the allure. The God of Infatuation loved to meddle in the Great Game, but could never stay focused on one goal or a given piece for more than a few hours at a time. So usually you could just ignore his pieces as they self destructed dramatically, except this time when it seemed he had gotten luc-. _Of course._

Fate sighed and turned to The Lady.

"So I assume that the Grey Lady belongs to you at the moment?" The Lady smiled enigmatically, and his mouth tightened. "It is to be that kind of game is it? Fine." _Perhaps, he mused, it is time to bring out a more reliable weapon. _Gesturing to the board, a new piece materialized near the center of the board. The Injured Lord was his most powerful piece that could always be relied upon to follow his will.

"Perhaps it is time the Grey Lady learns what happens with one tries to join noble society without true noble blood."

* * *

[1] A plinth is like a small column, used for a display stand, but with more saliva (especially when Offler says it).

[2] We are using the word "men" very loosely here, and in fact it includes men, women, people of indeterminate gender, people who haven't figured out their gender, trolls, dwarves, werewolves, vampires, igors, pictsies, and a practically infinite number of various one-offs. (Including Mrs. Cake. Don't ask.)

[3] Why one would place a heavy weight on a rubber sheet, much less why one would have a rubber sheet, is not a matter we wish to dwell on.


	3. The Injured Lord

**[A/N: First off, an apology for those who were hoping for all new material for this chapter. I had intended to incorporate the 'foreshadowing' epilogue from "Dust to Flesh" into this story, and this was the spot. So no, you aren't losing your mind, you have read this before. I did a bit of tweaking here and there. Working on Chapter 4 as you read this!]  
**

**The Injured Lord**

A large and elegant mansion rises from a well-manicured estate just off Scoone Avenue. Like its inhabitants, it embodies both former glory and a slight aura of wounded pride.

Attend, as we worm our way through a formal entrance designed to intimidate, past purpose-built and strangely uncomfortable seating in the formal sitting room, down private corridors to a spacious if somewhat decadent room smelling of tobacco smoke, dry paper, and old bookbinding glue.

Take a nice deep sniff, and you might find that lurking below these, and in some ways overpowering them, is the reek of old money and privilege. It is the kind of stench associated with the aggrieved and frustrated self-importance of a lion that has been too long held to second-place in a too-small fishbowl[1].

(Ahem, where were we? Ah yes…)

Sitting behind the ponderous and ornate desk, a self-defined gentleman adjusted his monocle and frowned at his servant.

"So you mean to tell me that this… _Lady_," his face pinched slightly in distaste at applying the title to her, "LeJean is responsible for extensive damage to my property, totaling… what was the number again?"

"Yes milord, it was over $10,000 AM. And it was only indirectly the lady's fault milord. It seems she stored a large amount of gold on the premises without paying her Thieves Guild dues, and miscreants attempted to steal it." He tensed, anticipating his master's displeasure.

"I see. Harumph," he harumphed." And you have notified this… person that she is responsible for returning my property to its original _pristine_ condition?"

Mr. Feddleman decided that correcting him on the prior condition of the residence would not be in his personal best interests at this point. "Of course milord. She indicated she had the ability to pay for the repairs in the time specified by the terms of her lease."

"Bah. Then why do you waste my time Feddleman? Have it taken care of!"

"Unfortunately milord, there has been... a complication. Lady LeJean has since been kidnapped."

Lord Rust's eyes ceased their aimless appraisal of dust motes and turned toward Feddleman. "Kidnapped eh? Not surprising. Bloody foreigners, wandering around the city with their foreign wealth, flaunting our established traditions[2]. They have no breeding you know, might as well give sausages to savages." Feddleman blinked at that one, but Rust kept going. "Fah, they are almost as bad as those damnable dwarves and trolls." He stood up and began pacing behind the desk. "The ruination of our way of life. That's what it is. Diluting our culture, supplanting the natural order of things. Getting above their station!" His monocle fell loose, hanging from its chain, and Feddleman suspected the topic of conversation had shifted slightly. "Allowing commoners… _commoners,_ to assume titles their family never earned!" He fixed him with a watery glare and paused. "Why are you still here Feddleman?"

Feddleman shuddered. "Er, there is one other thing milord." He took a step back. "It turns out the gold was somehow hidden in the flagstones of the floor milord, and after she was kidnapped the Watch declared the area a crime scene and-"

Rust reared up against the desk, leaving Feddleman grateful for its presence even though the massive bulk of it actually shifted beneath Rust's ire. "The _Watch_? The Watch?! The Watch has declared my property a crime scene! Is there no end to the insolence of that… that commoner?! That _pretender_! That… that _Vimes_!" Feddleman cowered before the sight of a nearly apoplectic Rust. Spittle and foam flew as his master jerked his head savagely. "Enough! Vetinari will bring that thief-taker to heel! This time he goes too far. They declare my property a crime scene because of… because of…" He quieted suddenly, and Feddleman thanked whatever Discworld gods might be listening. "Did you say, Feddleman, that the gold was hidden _inside_ the flagstones of the floor?" His eyes glinted suddenly. "How much gold is there?"

"It-!" Feddleman squeaked, then coughed and cleared his throat, "It would appear something in the seven figure range milord." Rust's face went suddenly unreadable, and he slowly straightened. He walked back to his overturned chair, straightening it and sitting calmly as he polished and replaced his monocle. "I see."

There was a long, pregnant silence as the two men silently counted up various things with lots of zeros after them.

"And you will attest that the flagstone in question was installed there _before_ the property was leased." It was not a question.

Feddleman sagged in relief. "Yes milord. Of course milord." And, he could hope, there would be a sizable commission involved. Well he could _hope_ couldn't he?

"It seems to me. " Lord Rust rubbed his chin. "It _seems to me_ that I do not need to trouble _Lady_ LeJean for the funds to repair my property. For one, it appears that _Lady_ LeJean may not be in any condition to return to the property. Not that a gentleman would wish any harm to a Lady of course." Feddleman nodded vigorously. "And secondly, it does not appear that _Lady_ LeJean has any funds with which to have such repairs made after all."

Rust's eyes gleamed. "Thus it appears that, sadly, we will be forced to make such repairs out of funds that, it seems, I already possessed. Is this not correct Feddleman?" He did not wait for a response. "Yes. Yes do go and call Mr. Slant. I believe I need to consult with him regarding certain... legal questions regarding my continued ownership of a large amount of precious metals that... certain others may seek to improperly claim as their own." Feddleman made to leave.

"Oh and Feddleman, should Lady LeJean prove to be at liberty after all, you will of course inform her that it will take many months to repair the damage. I'm afraid the Lady will have to seek other lodging." A slight smile creased his lips. "Yes, indeed."

* * *

[1] Yes yes we are mixing our metaphors. _Fine_. It's a _LION_fish. Are you happy now?

[2] Traditions such as the venerable "My family has always had all the money and those other families have always been poor, how about we keep it that way?" and "Social mobility? What on earth sort of infernal idea is that?"


	4. Homecoming

_[Updated 2/14/13 for minor improvements]  
_

**Homecoming**

The coach ride back to the Bakery was unpleasant. Ankh Morpork streets are not what one would call smooth under the most liberal definition, but generally people became used to the bumps and jounces of uneven cobbles and periodic holes. But in this situation, every jolt brought out a grunt or moan from Jonathon. More immediate and personal, Myria felt a shooting pain in her head with every jerking movement, and was beginning to tire of the sensation. It made her want to criticize Jonathon's complaints with short and biting words, and she did not understand why her own discomfort should make her want to say things that she knew would be unfair. The strain of holding her silence made her feel even _more_ frustrated and upset.

As a result, she was very relieved when they finally reached the Bakery. It was strange; it felt like a weight was removed from her body as she sighted the familiar building. It must have something to do with familiarity. Then she saw that there were two unfamiliar people standing outside the door, and some of that weight returned.

As they exited the coach, helping Jonathon down with some cursing on his part, she spared attention for the man and dwarf, who were clearly wearing some type of uniform. She frowned. _The uniforms, I have seen their like before. Where?_

_The Captain._

A feeling of heat washed over her, especially in her face. _Embarrassment_, she labeled it. Followed by a strong feeling of guilt.

Unlike the Captain, these watchmen were heavily armed. And they were _not_ smiling. Instead of truncheons, they had swords sheathed at their sides and were watching the trio exit the coach with hard faces. Their entire demeanor broadcast 'authority' and 'serious'.

As she and Susan helped Jonathon toward the bakery, the stocky human watchman moved forward to intercept them. Glancing between the three, he somehow settled on Susan as the one to address. Myria guessed that it had to do with her demeanor. While Myria had an ingrained need to defer to authority, Susan's body language seemed to express that she considered the Watch to be more of a distraction rather than something to seek out or fear. [1]

The watchman placed himself squarely in their path, muscled arms cocked, elbows out, and his right hand resting lightly near the hilt of his sword[2]. "Begging your pardon, milady, might I inquire as to your name and business?" His words were polite, but his stance apparently hadn't gotten the memo.

Myria felt Jonathon start draw up as if to speak, and then winced and sagged again. At the same time, Susan whispered, "Pray allow me." Without waiting for a response from Jonathon, she arched an eyebrow at the watchman. "What, no '_halt who goes there'_?"

The watchman's expression darkened and his hand tightened at his belt. "Would that work better, _milady_?"

Susan matched his expression. "Not likely." Myria watched with some concern as the dwarf watchman, seeming to sense things were not going well, began moving closer to the group from her right. _What is Susan doing?_

"There you go then, milady," was the human watchman's response.

Susan straightened further, and Myria could feel her switching into what Susan would call her Teacher Mode. "My good watchman, I have an injured man here, and would very much like to get him into his _own home_. As for my name, I would be more than happy to provide it, after you provide yours and explain why you here at all, and why you are preventing a man from reaching his _own bed_." The watchman's face reddened as she spoke, and Myria saw a _third_ watchman, this one a _troll_, come around the left corner of the bakery, and realized with a start that there were _two more_ watchmen on nearby rooftops. Those two held crossbows, not currently pointed in their direction, but... _I am becoming concerned. _She admitted to herself._ But I do not understand why. The situation should be resolving, not becoming more… tense._

By the time Susan had finished, the first watchman had reached maximum scowl. In the silence that followed he held it for a few seconds, realized it was not going to have any impact on her, and deflated slightly, clearing his throat. "I am Corporal Stroud, milady, and I have orders to let no one pass other than confirmed family members and those vouched for by them."

"Well that-" Jonathon began to answer, but Susan squeezed his arm. Myria could tell he was beginning to be frustrated with Susan's behavior as much as by the overall situation. And he was beginning to become heavy, which told her he was tired as well.

"_Marvelous_," Susan smiled but there was nothing pleasant in it, "since this is Mr. Jonathon Knäcke, and we are his friends, there should be no issue then."

Constable Stroud relaxed slightly. "Thank you milady. One moment please." He turned to the dwarf. "Constable Thundergust, let the sarge know that we have someone here claiming to be Jonathon Knäcke with two friends," he turned back to Susan, "and if you please, milady?"

"I am Susan Sto-Helit," if he recognized the title, to his credit it did not cow him much, "and this is Lady Myria LeJean."

That revelation had an unexpected result. Both Corporal Stroud and Constable Thundergust stepped back as if struck, growing pale. Corporal Stroud actually placed his hand on his sword hilt as his eyes darted back and forth between the two women, finally halting on Myria. "You are Lady Myria LeJean, ma'am?"

Myria felt naked beneath the attention, but managed a small nod. "This is correct."

Without taking his eyes off Myria, Corporal Stroud made a small hand signal, and Myria noted with growing alarm that the crossbows on the adjoining rooftops were now pointing in their general direction, though still not quite at them. "Constable, belay that last order. Go to the Yard and tell the commander that Lady Myria is here."

The dwarf hesitated. "But sir, shouldn't we tell the sergeant-"

The corporal's jaw worked, but he didn't take his eyes off of Myria. "That wasn't a request, constable." Shaking his head slightly, the dwarf turned and made surprising speed down Body Street toward Pseudopolis Yard.

Jonathon had had his fill. Working his arm out of Susan's grip with a grunt of pain, he stepped forward, swaying slightly. "See here corporal, this _is_ my home. And I don't appreciate being treated this way. I have had the worst month of my life, including nearly being impaled today." He coughed and grimaced, "And my chest feels like it's been tap-danced on by a hippo."

"I understand Mr. Knäcke, but we still need to-"

"What is the meaning of this? _Marjoram_! Thank Levanus[3] you're alive!" This was from one of two people just exiting the bakery. Corporal Stroud stepped back, slightly confused. _Who was she addressing?_

"Mrs. Knäcke, you really should not be outside." He turned back to Jonathon, who was turning bright red. "And I thought you said you were _Jonathon_ Knäcke sir."

"Oh _bother_," Aunt Rosemarie continued as she approached them. "Constable Stroud, this _is_ my nephew Jonathon. He despises his given name." She made to reach Jonathon, and Stroud attempted to intercept her.

"Stand down Corporal. I'm sure it's fine." This came from the second person exiting the bakery, a dwarf.

"Yes sarge." Stroud reluctantly stepped aside, and Jonathon's aunt flung herself at her nephew.

"Gahhh! Aunt Rosemarie, my ribs!"

She extracted herself and saw how pale his face was. "Sorry dear. I'm just so glad to see you are alive. We were sick with worry when we realized you had gone early this morning, we called the Watch." She cast a dark look at the corporal. "I didn't expect them to keep you waiting on your own doorstep."

The sergeant spoke up behind her. "My apologies Mrs. Knäcke. Corporal Stroud may have been overly cautious, but I'm sure he had good reason for concern."

"Sarge," Stroud almost hissed, "_that_ is Lady LeJean." Myria noted that the sergeant's reaction was not as dramatic as that of the first two, but the revelation still appeared to give him pause. The troll watchman on the other hand seemed barely aware of his surroundings and merely stared off into space.

"Ah." His brow furrowed for a moment. "Lady LeJean, I should inform you that the commander of the Watch has a standing order that were you found to be alive, you were to be guarded at all times and he notified immediately."

"I…" Myria considered the fact that there are two reasons to guard an object or person. The first was to protect it from harm or loss. The second was to protect others from that thing. Considering the reactions of the watchmen, she reached the obvious conclusion. "I see. Yes. I believe that I do understand."

This seemed to remind Jonathon's Aunt Rosemarie of her presence. She turned to Myria, more subdued. "Myria, it's good to see that you are alright as well. Jessica was very worried about you."

Myria found this to be the greatest surprise thus far, and for a few moments her expression looked remarkably like a fish as her brain attempted to reconcile the suffering Jessica had experienced because of her, with Aunt Rosemarie's statement. "Surely you must be mistaken, considering that her injuries were m-"

"Let's not get into that right now, shall we?" Susan interrupted yet again, pointing her chin at the watchmen before turning to face them fully. "Sergeant, may we take Jonathon inside?"

The sergeant seemed startled by this, then stepped aside and gestured toward the door. "Of course ma'am. We are only here for his protection." Myria filed this under additional confirmation of her prior suspicions regarding who was being guarded from whom.

"Good." Susan nodded to Myria and they got Jonathon, now even closer to dead weight, moving again. Aunt Rosemarie was already hurrying to hold the door open for them and preparing for some serious fussing.

They were just past the sergeant when he cleared his throat. "Er, one request ma'am."

Susan sighed and looked back over Jonathon's left shoulder. "And what is that?"

He at least had the decency to look embarrassed. The corporal on the other hand just looked bloody suspicious. "The commander will want to speak with Lady LeJean. Please ensure she does not leave the premises without notifying us."

Myria could literally feel the disapproval radiating off of Susan as she responded coldly, "I will bear that in mind." Which response, to Myria's mind, was not exactly an agreement.

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity. Uncle Pars met them at the door and took over getting Jonathon up the stairs and to his room. Jonathon did his part as well, stumbling and weaving and cursing under his breath with each step of the staircase and into his room, until he could collapse onto his bed.

As soon as they were all upstairs, Susan quickly rounded on Aunt Rosemarie, taking her by the sleeve and having some sort of quiet conversation with her.

Which left Myria, for the first time that morning, alone with her own thoughts for a few seconds.

Which was the exact length of time she was afforded before she received her _third_ shock of the day in the form of being body-tackled by a young, thin, but happily animated teenage girl. Expressing, in no uncertain terms, that Jessica's Aunt Rosemarie had not been mistaken at all regarding her feelings about Myria.

For the second time in her very short life so far, Myria found herself weeping, and knowing exactly why she was doing so. She would not have imagined one could do so out of joy.

* * *

[1] The propensity of a Watchman to seek out the person in the group that will be least cooperative is similar to a well-known party phenomenon. As anyone who has ever seen an officer of the law show up at a party, it's practically a given that the most completely inebriated individual there, possibly wearing underwear on their head, will nominate themselves Official Spokesman for the group. The result typically involves long hours in a small concrete room with excellent security.

[2] The Watch had not yet discovered the joys of mirrored eyewear. If they had, he would have been wearing that too, and likely would have slipped it down his nose slightly to peer over it.

[3] The aforementioned God of Yeast and Other Things That Rise When Heated. Very popular among breadmakers.


	5. What Me Worry?

**What Me Worry?**

Susan's conversation with Jonathon's aunt only lasted a few minutes, which time Myria and Jessica spent trying to one-up each other in soppiness. Myria did not understand why being happy should also make her cry. It seemed completely inappropriate, but she decided to go with it for the moment and attempt to puzzle it out later. They were interrupted when Susan finally let Aunt Rosemarie go to fuss over Jonathon, while Susan rounded on them.

She smiled a tight smile. "If you two don't stop, you will leave puddles on the floor to mop up." Her face softened. "Jessica, I am sorry to interrupt. May I speak with Myria privately for a moment? Thank you." She didn't wait for a response, though Jessica did get a nod in, as Susan took Myria by the arm and led her back downstairs.

Susan seemed very intent. Should she not be happy? The fact that she wasn't concerned Myria. "Is something wrong?"

"Perhaps. I have some things to check into. I will try to stop by later tonight or tomorrow to see how everyone is getting on."

"Is it serious?"

Susan frowned. "I'm not sure…" She gestured out the window at the men still hovering outside. "The fact that they sent four watchmen h-"

"Six."

Susan stopped and tilted her head at Myria. "Excuse me?"

"Six." Myria found she did not like correcting Susan. She could feel that it made Susan tense, but she couldn't stop herself. "There were two on the rooftops nearby with what appeared to be crossbows."

Susan was silent for a second, then took a slow breath. "As I was _saying_. The fact that they sent _six_ Watchmen tells us that something serious is afoot. And it involves you. Miss Rosemarie said they arrived as soon as the family reported Jonathon was missing, and they asked a lot of questions about you."

More of the joy at being back in the bakery fled. "Susan, am I endangering his family by being here?"

Susan sighed. "Oh do stop. What will you do if I say yes? Run away again so that poor fool has to hobble after you?" She shook her head. "You are not putting the Knäckes in danger from the Watch. The commander has a reputation for honesty and pig-headedness, and his men follow his lead." She took a breath, then let it out. "No, it is not Jonathon's family that is in danger."

Myria considered Susan's words as the two women looked at each other silently for a moment. "Yes. Yes I believe I understand. Thank you Susan, for all that you have done for me."

"Pray stop mentioning it. I could become weepy." Susan smiled grimly. "I will return tonight or tomorrow. Do not worry unnecessarily."

As Susan left the bakery, Myria considered. _Do not worry unnecessarily._ What an interesting turn of phrase. So she could worry, as long as it was necessary. That seemed prudent.

Now she just had to determine which things were necessary to worry about, and which were not. That… seemed much more complicated.

"I shall have to consider that carefully," she murmured to herself as she went back upstairs.

* * *

The Knäcke household spent the next hour or so fussing over Jonathon as a group. Myria noted with some concern, though she opted not to worry about it, that his uncle was avoiding looking at her. His aunt on the other hand seemed somewhat reserved, but polite. Jessica was clearly overjoyed to have her back. There was one thing that concerned her there as well, and she determined to worry about it aloud.

"Jessica, you appear to be unwell, and I can see that you are unsteady."

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Gods Myria, you are as bad as my mother."

"Well it's good to see Myria has some sense, even if you don't." Rosemarie quipped. "Myria would you..." She shot a look at Pars, who seemed to tense but did not otherwise react. "Would you help Jessica to her room? Her legs are still unsteady, no matter what she says."

"Of course." Myria followed Jessica, who was still eye-rolling and snorting, out the door of Jonathon's room. As soon as they were out in the common area, Jessica leaned on her, and she could feel her trembling slightly. "Jessica, you are more unwell than you were showing."

"It's alright." She gave a wan smile. "I'm just tired now. I was so happy to see you, I may have overdone it some."

Myria, for the second time today, helped a Knäcke to their bed. It seemed to be becoming a habit, and both times were through her fault. She felt another wave of guilt. "Why did you not say something before?" She asked as she eased Jessica into her bed.

"I didn't want to steal Jonny's spotlight." She giggled, then sobered. "No seriously, my parents have enough to worry about, and I'm just tired now, not really sick."

"It is my fault, is it not? I am sorry."

"No! No this isn't really your fault. It was… something else."

"What do you mean?"

Jessica tensed, took a deep breath, and over the next few minutes told Myria about her exposure to the Auditors, and Susan's intervention.[1]

As she spoke, Myria felt a new emotion. She had felt upset before. She knew that one. And she had felt fear. And anger. This felt somewhat like anger, but there was something else to it. She could taste something else flavoring it. There probably isn't a single word that sums up the emotion really. It's the complex blend that someone who escapes from a cult feels when they learn that the group has gone after someone they care about. Or the emotions a person might feel after they rescue a sack-full of puppies from the river Ankh[2]. Probably the closest descriptive would be "righteous wrath". It's what turns formerly quiet and mousy humans into Crusaders for Justice[3]. Her eyes practically burned with it. "They dared? How _dare_ they. I will… I will destroy them if they return. I will destroy them a-"

Jessica paled and grabbed Myria's clenched hands, prying her fingers open. "Please Myria. _Don't_!" She put her right hand on Myria's face to get her full attention. "I don't think I can handle thinking about… _that_… just now."

Myria felt the emotion drain away, replaced quickly by guilt again. _Of course, the thought of me seeking retribution…_ "I am sorry. I did not think now how reference to that would affect you. And I am sorry for what happened. I was not myself."

Jessica gritted her teeth. "You're still talking about it. _Stop_. Let's just move on."

"How?"

Jessica looked at her, confused. "How what?"

"How do you move on?"

Jessica shrugged, glad to see the topic shifting. "I don't know. You just try to forget, or gloss over, or think about other things. Maybe it's selective memory, the brain walls things off that are too painful."

"I am not sure my brain works that way. I can not keep from thinking about it."

Jessica frowned. "Well crap. _That_ could be a problem down the road. Won't that make you nuts?"

"If you mean mentally imbalanced, I am not sure. I would hope not."

Jessica laughed. "Myria, you are one odd bird. But I like you that way. Definitely not boring." She yawned. "Now go see to Jonathon, I'm going to take a nap."

* * *

Back in Jonathon's room, Myria was glad to see that he was sleeping, with his aunt sitting next to him. He looked very peaceful and she stood for a few moments, enjoying the sight before asking her next question.

"Where is Jonathon's uncle?"

"He went downstairs. We need to see if we can salvage the lunch hour." Rosemarie cast a dark look out the window. "That is, if those _men_ don't run off all the customers." She made as if to pat Jonathon's hand, and stopped herself. "I should go and help. I can't sit here watching Jonny the rest of the day, and we're shorthanded as it is." She stood up and stretched her back.

"Would I be allowed to assist?"

Rosemarie paused in mid-stretch, slowly lowering her arms. She looked toward the stairs for a moment and chewed her lip. "Well. Well." She seemed to reach a decision. "Yes. Yes you will, and I'll welcome the help."

Myria noted that she used the singular, and not the plural. Jonathon's uncle, it seemed, would not be so welcoming. It hurt.

Watching Uncle Pars spend the rest of the morning carefully avoiding her, while still somehow getting work done with her, also hurt. But it was tempered somewhat by what she rediscovered in the bakery; a sense of belonging, of having a role to play. As she helped with the sifting and mixing and kneading, she felt that _connection_ to humanity that she swore she would never give up again.

* * *

[1] For the full story regarding this, see Old Stoneface's previous story "From Dust to Flesh" chapters 23-25.

[2] Granted, no puppies ever drowned from being thrown into the river Ankh, usually they ended up banged up from hitting the surface. It would take quite a bit more weight to eventually sink into that mess. But it's the thought that counts. Also, being cooped up in a sack with a half dozen siblings is a crime in itself.

[3] Capital letters included. No extra charge.

* * *

**[A/N: I was struggling with the writing at the time of this chapter, the feedback from Sir Henry and the guest reviewers. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated regarding what you liked and anything that needs to be fixed. Thanks for your time!"**


	6. Sobriety is Overrated

**Sobriety is Overrated**

By the afternoon, the watchmen had gradually filtered into the background and things seemed to be settling nicely. Whenever Myria took moment to look out the windows, she could spot one or two of them either on the rooftops or across the street, but they didn't seem to interfere with business. There was a steady flow of grateful regular customers, mostly servants buying for their employers, during the noon mealtime. Many asked after Jessica and Jonathon, and when told they were ill but recovering offered both their well wishes and relief that it wasn't something serious. Some seemed to have heard rumors having to do with gold, and made side-remarks about whether the Knäckes would continue to run the bakery or retire like lords to the countryside. That rumor they squashed quickly.

As business slowed into the afternoon, Jessica came downstairs looking much better, ate with the family, and then helped clean up a bit over her mother's objections. This time Myria did not back up Rosemarie, as she could see that it was not doing Jessica harm.

"Surely some physical activity would be beneficial," Myria remarked after one of Rosemarie's pointed comments.

Rosemarie just snorted at that. "I thought I had an ally in the house."

Myria paused, frowning. "I am sorry? I did not realize this was an actual conflict, requiring that I take sides."

Jessica's mother snorted again. "Oh don't be silly, Myria. That was a joke of course."

Myria's face cleared. "I see. Then I shall leave you to 'fight your war between the two of you'." She looked a question at Jessica, as if to say '_was that correct_?' and got a nod of encouragement from the youth. Smiling slightly, she went to the back to wash up.

"Mom. You can't say things like that." She rolled her eyes. "Myria doesn't get sarcasm very well."

Rosemarie busied herself for a moment clearing the table. "I noticed that. Though for a highborn lady, she doesn't balk at getting her hands dirty. I like that about her."

Jessica considered for a second. "Yeah. Me too." She stole a glance at Myria's retreating back. "Though she's not exactly high-born, more like she… found her way into being rich."

* * *

Mere blocks away at Pseudopolis Yard, Commander Vimes of the City Watch was not having a good day. For one thing, Sergeant Fred Colon kept coming in and informing him of yet another group of people asking about the gold being held in the basement cells, until finally he told Fred not to bother him with it and just shoo them off.

So when he heard the tattletale floorboard just this side of the door squeaking repeatedly, he knew Colon had news that he needed to give, but didn't know how to do it without violating Vimes' previous order.

"Come _in_ Sergeant."

Fred Colon entered, red-faced and slightly bewildered. "Don't know how you do that Mister Vimes."

"Yes yes. What's the story, Fred?"

Every pound of Fred's ample bulk shouted out _you really don't want to know_, but he coughed once, cleared his throat, and soldiered on. "I thought you should know, the cells are starting to fill up."

Vimes slumped in his chair a little and rubbed his face. That damned scar that Carcer had given him, not quite healed, still itched. "Do tell."

"Yessir." Both chins wobbled. "We've arrested three from the Thieves Guild trying to break into the cells, sir." He shook his head.

"Hah!" Vimes barked, "That's got to be a first." Then the implications sunk in. "Waitaminute." Vimes got a dangerous glint in his eye as he carefully spoke the next sentence. "Are you telling me… that the Thieves Guild are violating their own rules?"

"Er... nossir. We, uh, that is _the Watch_ never paid dues to the Thieves Guild, Mister Vimes. We, uh, never had anything worth stealing before. I mean, all the men are paid up, but 'parently that's not the same thing as far as the guild is concerned."

Vimes just stared at him for a minute, making Colon very uncomfortable until he realized he wasn't actually looking at him, but _through_ him. "Damn. So since the gold doesn't belong to any one of us, doesn't count as breaking the rules, eh?" He grunted in the closest thing he'd ever come to a compliment to Lord Downey's crew. "Twisty logic, but can't exactly argue with it. Tell Carrot I want him to find out how much the dues would be and get that taken care of."

Colon saluted, relieved. "Right away sir. Err…"

_Oh gods._ Vimes fought the urge to rub the scar. "What _else_ is it, Fred."

"Yessir. Detritus had to knock out a couple of Chrysoprase's goons that tried to bully their way in."

Vimes was beginning to get a feel for this now. "And…"

Colon looked even more uncomfortable, which was quite an accomplishment. "And of course the dwarves have been trying. You know how they are about," He lowered his voice, "G-O-L-"

"Yes Fred," Vimes interrupted, "I'm well aware of how dwarves feel about that particular metal."

"Yessir. Several tried to tunnel their way in, Mister Vimes. Carrot caught them with pickaxes."

"And how many of _them_ so far?"

"Er... " Colon seemed to be trying to find a corner of the room to hide in.

"Gods, tell me it's not seven..."

"I'm afraid so sir."

Vimes shook his head. He could feel a headache coming on. "They weren't accompanied by a young girl, who was frolicking and singing to the little birdies were they?"

"No Commander, but if you want, I could ask Cheery to lead them in a sing-along."

Vimes gripped the edge of the desk, giving Colon a long look.

"Right sir. Bad joke sir."

Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch, found his hand toying with his lower desk drawer. Once upon a time, that treacherous hand would have found a more or less full bottle of Bearhuggers Whiskey there. While the drawer had not had anything of that sort in it for countless months now, old habits sobered up reluctantly. He pulled his hand back and allowed it to rub his scar in consolation, before reaching for his cigar case.

"Fred," he said as he toyed with a cigar, "at this rate, the cells are going to fill up with people trying to break _into_ the cells."

"World's gone mad Mister Vimes. It's the gold. Umm…"

Vimes sighed. "There's more?" He stared at the cigar very hard.

"Mr. De Worde was by as well. He wanted to interview us about what he called "The LeJean Affair." I told him to be off."

Vimes carefully set down the cigar and put both hands over his eyes. "De Worde." His fingers dug into his temples. "I don't need this, Fred. Sybil's cranky with not enough sleep since young Sam was born, and I'm having to bunk out in my office to get some sleep myself. On top of that I have to deal with Rust demanding I return _his_ gold, Vetinari asking all sorts of pointed questions, and a woman who won't stay dead. Add to that people trying to break into my own damn cells, and now De Worde's nosing around."

He stared at the wall for a moment. "We need to settle this. Send a runner over to the bakery to fetch LeJean, I want to talk to her about _her_ gold. Before De Worde gets to the Knäckes."

Fred's feet had him out of the office on autopilot before his head had even finished processing Vimes' commands.

_Well at least he didn't yell this time._

* * *

When her mother opened the bakery door, the young watchman who had knocked and now stood in the doorway seemed familiar to Jessica.

"Yes?" It wasn't exactly a polite greeting, but Rosmarie was still angry about the confrontation that morning.

"Message for Ms. LeJean, ma'am." He had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Rosemarie looked him up and down. "She's upstairs checking on my nephew. I'll take that." She pulled the paper out of his hand and immediately began to open it.

He paled a bit. "Ma'am, are you supposed to-"

"You mind yourself young man."

His face tightened slightly. "Yes ma'am."

Rosemarie's eyes scanned the message as she pursed her lips. "Hmph. Can't say as we can spare her right now."

"Excuse me ma'am?"

She looked up at the constable. "I mean we are too busy, and we are short-handed as it is."

The constable looked around the bakery, the _empty_ bakery, then back at Rosemarie, and opened his mouth slightly with a look that screamed _I am about to state the obvious and put my foot fully into it_.

"Mind yourself," she warned.

This time he was less intimidated, and held his ground. "Yes ma'am. But the commander won't be happy."

Rosemarie snorted. "Not my affair. And I'm already unhappy so we'll all be unhappy together. How about that?"

"Yes ma'am." He was finding his feet now, and also finding that 'Yes ma'am' seemed to work well. It was a safe holdover from dealing with minor nobles in Uberwald.

Jessica was sure now that she recognized him, watching this exchange. She came around the counter and addressed him directly. "Scuse me officer, do I know you?"

The constable's face softened a little as he realized who he was speaking to. "Constable Stepanoff, miss."

"Oh!" Jessica's eyes widened and she hugged herself.

He smiled slightly. "Yes miss, the same. I'm glad to see you well." He seemed to actually mean it, not just being polite.

Jessica wasn't sure how to respond. "Yes. I… thank you constable. If it hadn't been for you…"

"Just doing my job miss." He interrupted. "And honestly, I think the dog had quite a bit to do with it."

Jessica's arms loosened and her face went quizzical. "Dog?"

The left side of his mouth drew up, and she decided he was rather cute, for a Sammy. "Well, I say dog, only because I'm pretty sure it wasn't a rat."

That struck a couple of memories, ones that had a vivid odor associated with them. "Oh. Was he sorta brownish? Smelled like a wet privy carpet?"[1]

He laughed a little. "That's the one. I take you're acquainted?"

"You could say that. I appear to owe him some thanks as well. If you see him-" She had been about to say tell him to stop by. But that definitely wouldn't work. "Um, just let us know if you see him, ok?"

Stepanoff nodded. "Will do miss. I should get back to the commander. " He paused and smiled. "It is good to see you well miss."

"Call me Jessica." She smiled.

Stepanoff smiled a bit more broadly, and turned to leave. "Perhaps when I am off duty?" he threw out over his shoulder as he passed out the door, not waiting for a reply.

Jessica blushed slightly, and Rosemarie huffed a bit. "Well _that_ was subtle." Which caused Jessica to give her a glare.

"Mother!"

Rosemarie just chuckled at her. "Oh go tell Myria to expect more of these." She waved the message. If her guess was right, it definitely would not be the last, and things were about to get complicated again.

* * *

[1] See my previous story "From Dust to Flesh", Chapter 12 "Dog Day Afternoon"


	7. Perchance to Dream

**7 Perchance to Dream**

Myria checked on Jonathon periodically throughout the day. If he was asleep, she merely stood in the doorway and watched him for a few moments before returning downstairs to help in the bakery. She found that seeing him there was calming, reassuring, even if she didn't speak with him or touch him.

Other times she would reach the upstairs and hear that he was awake, but he would be speaking with his uncle and she did not wish to intrude. There was an uncomfortable feeling in how Pars looked at her when she was around Jonathon, and so she began avoiding that situation.

Thus it was late afternoon when she managed to slip upstairs to find Jonathon both awake _and_ alone. He was lying quietly, propped up with pillows, and smiled slightly when she entered the room.

She felt her face smile in response. "You are awake."

"And feeling better," he answered quietly. "Sit with me for a minute? I've missed you."

"I have been 'keeping busy' as your aunt says. It appears to make time pass more quickly." Myria moved the wooden chair closer to the head of the bed, and eased into it as she looked Jonathon up and down, from chest wrapped with bandages to an impressive bruise on his cheek. "You appear to be recovering well."

"Definitely. It only hurts when I laugh." He smiled a bit broader, then looked pained. "And when I move my face too much, apparently."

Myria studied his expression carefully. "Is that a way of saying something else, or do you actually mean that it hurts when you laugh?"

"I mean it really hurts when I laugh. Or cough. Or take very deep breaths. But other than that, as long as I don't try to get up, I feel pretty good. The bandage helps, mostly because it keeps me from taking very deep breaths."

"Then you should stay in your bed, and continue to do none of those things."

Jonathon gave Myria a look. "Now you sound like my aunt."

"She is a wise woman."

"Great, another female in the house on Team Rosemarie. Can you hand me that glass of water? I'd rather not do the reach."

"Of course." Myria retrieved the half-full glass from the bedside table and handed it to him. She thought for a moment. "Jonathon, that is the second time today someone has referred to it as a competition with sides. Your aunt accused me of betraying her side earlier when I suggested that Jessica was correct."

Jonathon shrugged with the glass in his hand, and winced. "That's just chatter, I guess." He took a couple of sips, and handed it back to Myria to place back on the table.

"I am less sure." She leaned back in the chair. "After consideration, I think that there _are_ sides, and they change depending on the situation. I think…" she looked to Jonathon for affirmation, "that it is important not to be seen always agreeing with one person and disagreeing with another. But I am still evaluating that."

Jonathon tilted his head, eyes unfocused for several seconds. "Hmm. I think you've hit on something there." Another thoughtful look. "You know Myria, it's strange. For someone who doesn't understand humans very well, you keep making these leaps in intuition that make _me_ have to think about the things we do and say."

Myria's mouth tightened, and she felt her eyes threaten to tear up. _Selfish body. It would not be fair_, she thought, _to cry now in front of Jonathon_. _He was the one in physical pain; the body's emotions should not interfere._ She turned her head slightly away, trying to hide it, without success.

"Oh, Myria I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say-"

She cleared her throat and shook her head. "Please Jonathon, do not apologize. We both know what I am, and what I am not. Wishing does not make it otherwise."

He reached out and rested his hand on her arm gently, which felt nice but in some ways made it worse. "I know, but I can tell it hurts you. It was thoughtless of me to just make an offhand remark like that."

"I have learned," she took a deep breath, "that sometimes the truth is painful." She ignored the tightness in her chest and forced her face to smile slightly, even though she was not actually happy. The result was not quite what she intended, falling somewhere between "I have just eaten a strange mushroom and now I can hear colors" and "My name is Norman, welcome to my inn. You remind me of my mother!".

Jonathon looked confused for a moment and slightly concerned, then smiled in earnest. "That was a good attempt, but I'd practice in front of a mirror before you try that out in public. It definitely needs some work before anyone else will buy it."

For some reason his remarks eased the ache in her chest, and the urge to become weepy retreated enough that she was able to give a small but genuine smile. "I am learning. Your family members are good teachers."

Jonathon was quiet again for a minute. She was beginning to recognize that particular tilt of head as meaning 'I am deep in thought. Please wait.' Finally he continued, "You have changed, Myria."

Myria frowned and leaned forward. "What do you mean? In what ways have I changed? Should I change back?"

Jonathon laughed quietly, careful with his ribs. "Well, you seem more confident for one thing, at least until just then. And _no_ you should not change back… Could you? Change back I mean?"

"I do not know. I was not aware I was changing at all. But… " Myria pulled up a vision from memory, a picture in her head of clinging to him in the house on Kings Way, terrified he would leave her alone, and compared it to how she felt now. "I can see that I have changed. I feel less anxious about," she struggled to find the right word, "_living_. About being who I am."

Jonathon nodded and squeezed her arm in affirmation. "Yeah. I notice you haven't been waiting by my bedside every minute of the day. I half expected them to have to kick you out of the room."

"You have slept most of the day. I _have_ been upstairs to check on your health. But I determined it would not be reasonable to take up the limited space in this room while your family was tending to you. And I wanted to be of use. And yes, I feel less panicked by the idea of being away from you now." She covered his hand with hers, enjoying the quiet closeness.

There was a long quiet moment. It was one of those moments where two people gaze into each other's eyes and contemplate the depth of feeling they share, just before one of them is fated to say something stupid and completely screws up the moment.[1]

Jonathon decided fate could go screw itself.

"Kiss me."

"You wish me to kiss you?"

"Hah. That's what I said. I would kiss _you_, but I am not as mobile as I'd like. Now be quiet and kiss me." Myria felt suddenly hesitant, and didn't understand that at all. They had kissed before, and it was very enjoyable. She would, perhaps, ask Jessica about this later. Taking a deep breath, she leaned further forward in the chair, feeling her eyes begin to close of their own accord.

"Wait," Jonathon interrupted, and she froze and frowned slightly and opened her eyes to look at him.

"Yes?"

"Make sure, if you decide to pass out again," he smirked a little, "that you don't fall on me. I don't want to end up with broken ribs again."

For some reason, that lightened the mood instead of upsetting her. Myria could tell that he was teasing her. "I will try to not be overcome. And I will be gentle." It was probably a chemical thing, but she felt like giggling, and gave in to the urge, and laughing leaned in and kissed him softly.

Immediately she found herself half enthralled by the impact of the kiss, and half trying to moderate the effect so she didn't lose herself completely in it. She was at least successful enough that she merely felt dizzy. Then again that may have been because she'd forgotten to keep breathing. She considered further that while light-headed, she also felt very much alive, as if the blood in her veins and arteries were spiced with…. with chocolate. Yes that was it.

It seemed an eternity later when she heard the sound of a cough, followed by a clearing of a throat, in the doorway behind her. For some reason, the sound automatically caused her to sit up, and she felt her face become warmer. _Embarrassment_? Jonathon's hand was still grasping hers; their fingers had intertwined, but he was looking past her with an expression that seemed a mix of amused and something else. "Uncle?"

Myria felt her body react, as if it were trying to compress itself into the chair and become smaller.

Pars continued, his voice neutral. "Jonathon needs to rest, and Rosemarie needs help downstairs."

Myria responded "Of course-" at the same time as Jonathon's "I'm fine Uncle-." They paused, realizing they had spoken over each other, and Myria jumped into the gap. "Jonathon, they need my assistance. I will return downstairs." She quickly got up and walked past Pars, neither looking at the other. The last she heard as she made her way down the stairs was Jonathon's voice, sounding troubled. "Uncle, what was…"

* * *

When evening mealtime arrived, Jonathon was asleep, and as a result Myria ended up sitting in his usual place at the table, her own 'special meal' in front of her. She had been proud of this batch of waferbread, as she had prepared it herself and could not wait to tell Jonathon about her success.

Unfortunately, that feeling was tempered quickly by a feeling of discomfort. The primary reason was that Jonathon's uncle seemed to be unwilling to speak to her or look at her. She was unsure of his aunt's feelings, but she was sure that his uncle was unhappy with her for any number of reasons, most of them probably valid in her estimation.

Jessica on the other hand seemed oblivious at first, until she apparently realized that she was carrying three parts of a four-person conversation. Soon the only sounds were the clink of cutlery on plates and mouths working on processing food for digestion. Myria noted when Jessica began glancing from her aunt and uncle to Myria, a frown forming.

"Um, what's going on here?"

Pars glowered at his plate, and Rosemarie shot her a look and a quietly murmured "Later." Myria determined that she should not answer the question at that moment either.

But not answering seemed to make it worse. It felt, somehow, like the room was slowly becoming smaller and smaller, and Myria had the urge to flee. She found herself unable to finish her meal, meager though it was. Her stomach kept signaling that it was, well, _unhappy_ with her, though she did not know what she could have done to it.

Excusing herself quietly, she fled to the downstairs and discovered the joys of being sick in the utility sink.

The situation in the upstairs was little better. Jessica dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter and crossed her arms. "Ok, what in dragonsfire is going on here, da?"

Pars frowned more deeply and gave her a careful look. "You mind your manners Safflower. I am your father, not one of your 'rocks' friends."

That response did not help matters. For one thing, Jessica hated being called Safflower, except in that loving, teasing way that fathers have with their children, and this certainly didn't fit the bill. For another, she was sixteen, almost _seventeen_ and 'practically grown up'. And for a third, she had just been through a little personal hell.[2] She gritted her teeth.

_Okay, you want to play that card? Fine._ "Alright." She put on a neutral face. "Father, may I ask what is going on here?" Her mother widened her eyes at that.

Pars looked at her carefully. "Nothing that's your concern."

Jessica felt like her head was going to actually explode, and threw her hands up instead. "Seriously? This whole meal, everyone has been staring at the table and trying not to look at each other. A blind troll could tell you are mad about _something_, and no one is talking about it. And you say it's not my concern?"

"This is between adults, Saf-"

"Don't you _dare_ Safflower me and tell me it's none of my business. I am _sixteen_, not some runny nosed- Ow!" That last because her mother had just poked her in the leg with her fork.

"That is enough, both of you!" Rosemarie stood up. "Jessica, I need to speak to your father. I suspect that Myria could use some company."

"You're just trying to get rid of me."

"Yes I am. But it's still true."

Jessica looked at her mother suspiciously. Being told the truth threw her off a bit. "Well. Fine then. But I'm still not a kid any more. You can't just pretend there's no problems around me."

"I know that, maybe better than some do," she threw a glare over her shoulder at the only male in the room. "Now shoo and let me talk to your father."

Jessica put in the obligatory huff, the required 'shoving of the chair' and the mandatory stomping off, and found Myria downstairs sitting at the counter looking miserable and slightly green, having just finished rinsing the sink and her mouth out with clean water.

"Wow, you look terrible? What happened?"

"I am not sure. It is possible that I did not prepare the waferbread properly. My digestive system malfunctioned."

Jessica put an arm around her in sympathy. "Ah. Threw up did you?"

"I believe that may be the term, though it is not exactly accurate. It was more out than up."

"Ick. Still no fun either way. Probably wasn't the food though. Probably it was the situation."

"What do you mean?" Myria turned to peer at Jessica.

"Well being nervous or upset can make you throw up. Not sure why." She shrugged with one shoulder.

"I see. Yes then that is a more likely explanation. I was very upset."

"Yeah. What gives?"

"I am sorry?"

She shook her slightly. "What's _wrong_, Myria?"

"They are angry with me. I think it is because I am here, and it is my fault."

"What the heck are you talking about?" Jessica's tone took on some of the edge it had gotten upstairs.

"I _believe_ that your father blames me for the condition of you and your cousin. It upsets him. And it is my faul-"

"Oh will you stop?" Jessica gripped both of Myria's shoulders and gave her a good shake at each syllable, which shocked Myria enough that all she could do was stare wide-eyed at the young girl. "Look Myria, yeah none of this would have happened if you hadn't stumbled into Jonny. But that's the _point_. _None_ of this would have happened." Myria tried to look away, but Jessica moved her hands up to either side of Myria's face, holding it in place. "Myria, I've never _seen_ him as happy as he was, before everything went wahoonie shaped. And you are responsible for that too. Get it?"

Jessica dropped one hand, leaning back. "So enough of the blaming thing. We're fine." Myria started to speak and Jessica covered her mouth. "Ok not fine. But we're alive and we're _going_ to be fine. Better than fine. I like you. You're like the kid sister I never had. Yeah I know you're like older than me, but you're so clueless most of the time it's like having a kid sister." She smiled and moved her hand away. "You can talk now."

"Well, actually you are correct. In experience I am only a few months old."

"See. And you're gaining a sense of humor too." She noted the look of confusion on Myria's face. "Ok maybe not. But that's not the point. Jonny is all gallant knight over you. I mean throwing yourself in front of a _spear_ for a lady? That's like so romantic it's stupid, and kinda sickening, but I could sell _books_ about that and make thousands."

Myria struggled, as usual with Jessica, to determine which statements to address. Several of them seemed to have factual errors. She opted for what seemed the most important. "Jonathon may not feel the same way now."

Jessica snorted. "Riggghhhttt. And the King will come back to Ankh Morpork and appoint him the next Patrician. Look Jonny's crazy about you, and mom and dad will just have to deal with it."

Myra wanted to believe her, but upstairs she suspected things were much more complex than Jessica would admit. Suddenly she felt very, very tired. Too tired to really absorb all of this. She felt her mouth gape open and her body reflexively inhaled deeply.

That seemed to snap Jessica out of her rant. "I'm sorry, Myria. You're exhausted aren't you? How many hours did you work today?"

Another yawn. "I am unsure."

"Well how many hours were you downstairs in the bakery."

"Not counting time when I was taking food upstairs or attending to personal needs, 8 hours and 23 minutes."

"Geez Myria, no you don't subtract off those. And all that after being awake since before dawn? No wonder you are exhausted."

"I am not sure I was-"

"Whatever. We need to get you to… hey wait a minute. Where are you staying now?"

Myria realized that she had not even considered this. She must be more tired than she had realized. "I do not know. I had not considered it." Her face betrayed her concern. "My previous dwelling is not suitable for habitation due to extensive damage. And I do not have access to any funds to obtain alternate lodging."

"Well then you have to stay here tonight, at least."

"I do not believe that your father will approve."

"Right now, I don't care if they have a rat's ass[3]."

Myria blinked at her. "I suspect that-

"Oh forge-" Jessica sighed. _No, telling Myria to forget it won't work either._ "That was another saying. It means I don't care at all. The point is, you have nowhere else to stay, so you are staying here. End of discussion."

Myria sat, swaying slightly and just looked at Jessica.

"Well, don't you have anything to say?"

"But, you said it was the end of the dis-"

Jessica grabbed her own hair and tugged. "Gods Myria, sometimes you are impossible. No, don't ask. I'm too exasperated and angry with my parents right now to explain _anything_ without making it more confusing. Come with me." Not waiting for an answer, she took Myria by the arm and walked her up the stairs. They could hear Pars and Rosemarie having an intense and moderately loud discussion from their bedroom as Jessica led Myria into Jessica's room before plopping her on the bed. She pointed at Myria. "_You_. Lay down here. Go to sleep. Do not go anywhere else. That's an order." She pointed a thumb back at herself. "_I'm_ going to go have the mother of all teen rebellion moments with my parents, and it's gonna be ugly. Like Music With Rocks In ugly." She looked almost giddy with the prospect as she closed the door behind her.

Alone and on an actual bed for the first time since before Jessica had been kidnapped, Myria surprised herself by quickly falling asleep, despite the familial midden-storm she knew must be brewing nearby. Her last thought was to wonder what the world would look like tomorrow.

* * *

[1] Usually resulting in the next 1 hour and 45 minutes of the movie being spent trying to repair the damage in either a humorous or heartbreaking manner.

[2] For those unaware of the term "Fire Triangle" this is a pretty similar mixture.

[3] Rat's Ass [n] MWRI slang for a really bad scene.


	8. Small Miracles

**8 Small Miracles**

Myria awoke feeling... well. Well and rested. And warm. And slightly constrained. She discovered upon becoming fully awake that the feelings of warmth and being constrained were directly related. They were due to the fact that she was stuffed between the wall and Jessica, and at some point Jessica had decided she would serve as a giant cuddly blankey, had snuggled up as close as possible, and then sprawled half of her limbs on top of Myria.

The feeling was not wholly unpleasant, and very comforting in a way that was quite different from how she had felt when she and Jonathon had been in close physical contact. But she quickly became aware of one pressing problem with the situation.

Myria grimaced. "Jessica?"

"Mrmf," was the less than expressive reply. It appeared that Jessica was partially consuming a portion of her pillow, which begged the question of how she was obtaining sufficient oxygen.[1]

"Jessica?" _What is protocol in this situation?_ _Should I actively attempt to awaken Jessica? Or wait and hope that she will awaken or shifted over on her own? Would it be improper to physically remove her without waking her?_

After some consideration of her predicament versus the potential for offense, Myria settled for extracting one arm and gently poking Jessica in the side. "Jessica. Please move to the side. I must get up."

"Mrmfrm?"

That at least was recognizable as a question from the tone. "I must get _up_ Jessica. _Please_. It is becoming urgent."

"Mrm?" Jessica slowly extracted her face from the pillow and turned it toward Myria. Opening one lid and fixing a bleary eye in Myria's general direction, she managed a "Whazzit?" Myria watched as the eye finally focused and appeared to sync up with Jessica's brain, at least partially. "Mrng Mrya. Zup?"

Myria waved an arm, attempting to express urgency. "I must attend to body functions. Without delay."

That clicked, and the rest of the brain seemed to engage. "Oh!" Jessica rolled aside with a slight laugh, and Myria staggered out of the bed and promptly ended up on the floor.

"I… am impaired." This was disturbing. One of her legs refused to hold her weight, and was disobeying direct commands.

Jessica laughed again. "Yeah I think your leg's asleep."

"What do you mean? How can only part of me sleep? That is a brain function."

Jessica sighed and plopped back face-first onto her pillow, mumbling "too early for this" before extracting it long enough to explain that it was a circulation thing. "Give it a second, try moving it around. Wiggle your toes or something," she managed before again seeking the solitude of a face full of featherdown.

Myria found that the remedy worked, though the nerves in her leg were having some sort of minor malfunction, telling her that there were small things crawling on her skin, which was clearly not true. After managing to get it working somewhat, she managed to stagger downstairs and out to the privy without falling again.

Required business[2] attended to, she noted the sounds of Jessica's parents at work in the bakery. It was surprising and troubling that neither had sought the assistance of either her or Jessica, and she resolve to ask Jessica about it. She also paid Jonathon's room a brief visit, but finding him sleeping still she opted not to wake him but instead returned to Jessica's room.

There she found Jessica more awake, sitting on the edge of her bed and attempting to rub the sleep from her eyes. "Oh, hey again. Sorry about the whole personal space thing."

"What do you mean?"

"I kinda had you crowded in there. Ma says that I'm like smoke in a room when I sleep. I kinda expand to fill the whole space."

"I see. I did not mind, other than the 'sleeping leg'. I noted, however, that it is later than usual, and your parents are working. Why did they not awaken us to help in the bakery?"

"Oh _that_." Jessica snorted. "I'm guessing it's because my parents are either still thinking I'm all fragile and need the rest, or Da is still so miffed he didn't want to see my smug face around." She illustrated the point through an expression that seemed to combine humor with a strange appearance of fierce satisfaction. Myria guessed that was what 'smug' meant. "You missed _all_ the fun last night I think. I bet you were out like a light as soon as I left the room."

"I believe so. But I can not imagine how the conversation with your parents could have been enjoyable."

"It definitely wasn't at first." Jessica sobered a little. "You were right about at least part of it. Da was all 'It is too dangerous to have Myria around.' and 'It's not good for Jonathon to be so attached to her.' and 'She should be with her own kind.' Now that was a laugh."

Myria tensed. "My own kind? Do they know?"

Jessica smirked. "Are you kidding me? No way! I mean, they know you're a bit… uncanny. But they don't know about the whole 'don't mess with Myria unless you want to see what you're made of' thing." The smirk wavered for a second. That wasn't all that funny when she thought about it.

"Then what did your father intend by 'my kind'?

"Oh he means your social class thing. Remember what we talked about?"

"Ah. Yes. But I have no money, and I find I did not particularly enjoy the company of those women we met, who are supposed to be of my social class."

"And that's exactly what I told Da, and he got all huffy so Ma had to calm him down again. And _then_ I said that since you had no money right now, and you were like a guest and all, it would be a mortal crime to just turn you out." Jessica grinned broadly and she narrowed her eyes. "Now _that_ got Da's trousers in a twist and he got all red and gave me what for."

"What for?"

"What for. He went off on this tirade about me not showing proper respect and blah blah blah. I'm surprised it didn't wake you or Jonny. Ma was giving me hand signals behind his back." She illustrated waving a hand in a small circle "So I just let him get it out of his system. Then Ma took my side and he knew he was beaten." She rubbed her face again. "But it took a while. No wonder I'm tired."

Myria shook her head. "That all sounds unpleasant and not satisfactory at all."

"Don't worry about it, it all worked out." She paused. "Well, he did score a few points. Like you can't stay in Jonathon's room cause suddenly it's not proper." She shrugged. "It's not like you could do anything anyway with him all banged up and bandaged up like that," she added, peering at Myria from the corner of one eye.

Myria felt her face warm. "_Jessica_. I do not believe you should be discussing such topics with me?"

Jessica giggled. "Oh don't worry about it. I mean it's a _little_ oogy thinking about my cousin snogging, but I don't get totally creeped out by the idea. But the _point_ is, you can stay here in my room until you can get your own place again. How cool is that?"

Myria thought for a moment. "Actually it was quite warm."

Jessica looked exasperated again, "Myria, I meant-" and was interrupted by Myria raising her hand.

"Wait one moment." Myria smiled hesitantly. "I was attempting to make a joke. Did I succeed?"

Jessica's jaw dropped, then morphed into an honest smile. "You crafty thing you. Yep. Aced it in one!" Standing, she gave Myria a hug, and they went about their business getting ready for the day.

* * *

After tending to their remaining morning ablutions, they made their way downstairs to find Rosemarie and Pars both looking a little tired, but working steadily. It had apparently been a long night for them as well. Rosemarie greeted them warmly, while Pars was at best polite to Myria, and carefully eyed Jessica.

At least it was an improvement over the prior evening. While he was still very unhappy with the current arrangements, he had to admit that having Myria around seemed to have sped up Jessica's recovery. Of course there was a downside, that this meant her normal teenage prickliness was also resurfacing, as he learned last night. "Outnumbered and out femaled," he muttered, and turned back to his work.

* * *

A few hours later, Myria and Jessica were in full swing, and the bakery was beginning to actually feel like a fully functioning business again. Jessica was kneading dough for the mid-day baking and Myria was handling the previously baked goods. She was trying to determine whether it was coincidence or not that Pars had assigned her to take care of 'that Genuan bread' visitors from there couldn't live without. Pars meanwhile was tending the ovens while Rosemarie handled customers.

Most of the customers fell into two categories. The servants of the wealthier ones were there buying baked goods, bread and pies mostly, with a few cakes by special arrangement, on behalf of their employers. Then there were the working-class customers, who could not regularly afford such treats. Instead, they would file in with already-prepared food and, for a small fee, Pars would pop it into the oven for them.[3] Mostly these took the form of meat or fruit pies with a smattering of specialty breads or other dishes that they would serve for the afternoon meal.

Thus Myria was happily slicing the crusty Genuan Bread into thick slabs. She was enjoying not only the effort but also the alluring but slightly terrifying smell it gave off, when she discovered something new and quite interesting.

Her body, she discovered, was amazingly adept at many things. But it could not be counted on to avoid sharp edges.

At first, there was no pain. Then an intense itching/burning sensation emanated from the cut as her body told her brain of its extreme displeasure with what had just happened to her forefinger. Myria stared at the cleanly sliced flesh, fascinated as the initial wave of pain receded.

"I have cut myself," she murmured, and her eyes widened as rich, dark liquid began to ooze, slowly at first and then with greater speed, from the separated tissue of her finger.

Jessica turned from her own work, and cringed in sympathy. "Ouch! Yeah, you have." She grabbed a nearby towel. "Here, wrap this around it and hold it above your head."

Instead of doing as she suggested, Myria lifted her hand up to eye-level, marveling at the way the blood swelled and pooled at the site of the wound, and then trickled down her hand to drip onto the floor. "I am _bleeding_!"

Jessica's eyes flicked from her hand to Myria's odd expression. _Is she in shock? No…_ "Um. No kidding. Now take the towel?"

Myria seemed unable to tear her attention away, and shook her head slowly, "You do not understand. _I am bleeding_!"

Jessica lowered the proffered towel and eyed Myria carefully. "Ok Myria. You are _seriously_ creeping me out, and you're getting blood everywhere. What is the big deal? Yes you're _bleeding_. All. Over. The. Floor."

That added information seemed to finally snap Myria out of it. "Oh! Yes. Yes I see. I am sorry." She reluctantly took the towel from Jessica and wrapped it around her finger somewhat mournfully, and elevated her hand as Jessica suggested. "It is just that, I have never bled before."

"You've never been cut before?"

"No I did not say that. I have been injured before." She lowered her voice. "But I was not like _this_ then. I did not _bleed_. Now I am more like _you_." She smiled, her eyes shining.

_Ohhhh…_."Right. Got it." She gave Myria a sympathetic but slightly wary look. "Well that's great, I guess, but try not to do it too much. Blood is supposed to stay _inside_. And nobody likes scars."

"Yes. Yes of course. I will have to be more careful now."

"You do that. I don't want you cutting yourself on stuff. That will freak people out. And then there's germs and stuff." She looked at the towel. "I guess I should get a real bandage, and something to clean out the cut. It didn't look deep, but we don't want it getting infected."

Myria frowned slightly. "Infected?"

"Yeah. Dr. Lawn told me about it. There are like these little bugs that get into cuts, and they can make you sick."

Myria's eyes narrowed. "I am not sure I would allow that."

"Not _allow_… wow. Now that's not something I ever heard someone say. But still better safe than sorry, right?"

"Yes I suppose you are correct." Myria looked at her finger carefully, wrapped in the towel, and her brows knit in concentration. "There, that should be sufficient."

There was a long, drawn out moment where Jessica forgot to breathe. Then… "You _didn't_."

"Why not?"

"Let me see that!"

"Did I do wrong?" Myria was looking left and right, suddenly realizing that she had again done something _uncanny_.

"I said," Jessica continued carefully, "let me see it."

With growing unease, Myria unwrapped the bloody towel and let Jessica inspect the finger.

Shaking her head, Jessica murmured. "Not even a scar."

"You said that-"

"I know what I said." She stepped back and tapped a tooth thoughtfully. "You, my friend, are full of surprises today. No don't get upset, but don't go letting people know you can do that either, _ok_? You'll have a line out the door of people wanting you to lay hands on them." She considered a moment. "Hey waitaminute. How come you didn't heal up Jonny that way?"

Myria looked embarrassed. "I tried. But for some reason it was difficult and gave me an ache in my head. I was only able to do some repairs. Susan said it was interesting." Myria had not found it interesting at all.

"That's probably just as well. Here, let me get rid of the towel, and you clean up the blood before my parents start asking questions."

"Yes. I suppose you are right."

* * *

[1] The ability of teenagers to sleep in contorted positions with their faces crammed into a pillow or forearm without self-asphyxiating or, like some warped topiary, permanently taking the shape of a pretzel, is a mystery to parents and Auditors the universe over.

[2] Visits to the privy were still definitely at the very bottom of on her list of "things I particularly enjoy about being human." She had tried, several times, to determine if there was some way to avoid it. None of them ended well.

[3] This was actually common practice in roundworld cities, before ovens were common fixtures in every home. Locals would prepare their own dishes and pay the baker to supply that portion of the preparation.

**A/N: *cough cough* there's like... a button down there, just below this text. Has the word "review" on it. Wonder what it does? *cough cough* ;-)**


	9. A Little Bit of Rope

**9 A Little Bit of Rope**

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. There was some discussion regarding who would be saddled with dealing with Jonathon's bedpan. Jessica absolutely refused, threatening to show everyone her last meal in all of its splendor if forced to do so. Pars claimed it was 'not his place,' which caused some raised eyebrows from his wife. Myria expressed that she was willing to do so, but Rosemarie simply patted her shoulder and said 'don't worry about it, she'd been dealing with such things since her daughter and nephew were babes. Age really made little difference'.

Jonathon continued to improve gradually, sitting up for longer periods but still suffering when he had to change bedclothes or do anything else requiring much movement of his chest or arms.

Early afternoon brought a visitor, who was greeted by Rosemarie at the front of the bakery.

"Doctor Lawn! What a pleasure. May I offer you something? We have some meat pie left from the lunch hour, still warm next to the oven."

The man in question smiled in return and tilted his head before setting his ever-present bag on a chair. "Mrs. Knäcke. Thank you, but I'm really not hungry." His smile faded a little. "I thought I'd stop by and see how your daughter was doing. I haven't heard any updates in a couple of days."

"Hey Doc! How's things?" came the answer to his question, followed by Jessica coming into sight from the back of the bakery. The doctor's face lightened at that, and his smile returned as he gave her a professional appraisal.

"Well I guess that answers that question. You look in much better health, Jessica."

"Yeah. I feel a lot better too."

"I can tell. I'm relieved." It had been difficult for Lawn, attempting to treat what he was sure was not a physical ailment but manifested itself like a wasting sickness. This would be a significant load off of his mind. He turned to Rosemarie and asked more quietly, "What happened? She's done a complete turnaround."

"I… can't say for sure, but I think it had to do with Lady Myria returning."

"Oh? That's interesting, but stranger things have happened[1]. Well, it appears that thankfully you don't need my services after all." He straightened and reached for his bag.

Rosemarie and Jessica looked at each other for a moment, reaching silent agreement. "Actually Doc, there _is_ something I'd like you to check, if you don't mind?"

"Oh?"

"Yeah… um. My cousin had a little accident and bruised his ribs. Think you could have a look?"

Lawn was no fool. He could tell from how the two women were acting that there was more to this than an 'accident.' But, true to his field, he didn't push the matter. "Well, since I'm already here, let's have a look." Shouldering his bag again, he let them lead him upstairs to Jonathon's room, where he insisted on examining Jonathon "without everyone hovering over." Giving him a thorough once-over, which resulted in more than a little grumbling, muttering, and whining from Jonathon about being poked and prodded and forced to move in ways that hurt, he pronounced him in no danger of getting worse, and apparently well on his way to recovery.

"It's odd though. The way these injuries look, I'd say you had been hurt a lot worse than you are now. And they look at least a week old." He looked carefully at Jonathon, who did his best to appear clueless and innocent and opted for a painful shrug. "I see. And the fact that I was here only four days ago, and you were fine?"

Jonathon went for his best 'I'm a moron what do I know?' face. Lawn sighed. 'Well, it looks like your family has fixed you up well. Stay in bed and don't exert yourself for a few more days, then you can gradually start moving around again. Take some willowbark tea if you have pain or swelling."

"Thanks Doctor Lawn."

Giving Jonathon another openly curiously look, Lawn left the room to inform the rest of the family. As Rosemarie walked him to the door, he paused again. "Jonathon's injuries wouldn't have anything to do with those watchmen loitering around outside the bakery would they, Mrs. Knäcke? Not that it's my business."

Rosemarie considered for a moment. He had been very helpful and attentive to Jessica. She opted to be polite. "Somewhat, Doctor Lawn. Yes."

"Hmmm. Well, as much as I have enjoyed your company, I hope I won't have any more professional interest anytime soon?"

"We'll try. I promise."

* * *

The afternoon proved to be a busy one, when a second visitor arrived an hour later.

It was another watchman, one they had not seen before. Not especially tall, nor dressed especially richly, his primary distinguishing feature was a still-pink scar above and below one eye and a certain smugness that grated on Rosmarie's nerves almost immediately.

"May I help you, officer?" she asked with as little politeness as she could, which wasn't much.

He looked at her and smiled slightly, but she wasn't sure what was so funny. "Yes I believe you can. I have a message for Lady LeJean."

She drew herself up. "As I told the other man yesterday, we are very busy and she is helping us here in the bakery. You may leave any message with me, and tell your commander she will not be able to answer any summons at this time."

Commander Vimes' smile broadened further. It wasn't often in this day and age that he was thwarted by someone who was not either his wife or the Patrician. He found her attempt at intimidation actually refreshing. Had she been an aristocrat basing it off of her 'pedigree' that would have been another matter, but he always appreciated someone willing to stand up to capricious authority for family.

Not that he considered himself capricious.

Well, not most of the time.

Still, this was going to be interesting. "Well then, Mrs. Knäcke, it's fortunate that I am here to speak with her directly and not to summon her anywhere. And I don't have anything written to hand over either." He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows in the universal gesture of 'your turn, let's see what cards you've got'.

Rosemarie was temporarily at a loss, but recovered quickly. "Well. We are still very busy. Perhaps you could return some other day."

Vimes stared at her without his expression changing one bit for a few seconds, then slowly scanned the practically empty bakery. "I see. In that case-"

He was interrupted by the bakery door opening behind him. "_Commander_! They didn't tell me you would be inspecting the men today!" Corporal Stroud seemed very agitated, and Vimes' look of disappointment only made it worse.

Rosemarie, on the other hand, became pale and felt slightly ill as she put two and two together and got a very _large_ number four. "Your Grace?" she managed in a small voice.

_Blast and damnation._ "Madam, you were doing so well before. Can we pretend Corporal Stroud did _not_ just blurt out the first thing that came into his head?" He gave Stroud another irritated look.

"Sorry Com-." Another look, and Corporal Stroud sagged. "Sorry sir. I'll be outside if you need anything, sir," and he literally scuttled out.

Vimes sighed. Corporal Stroud was zealous about making sure his men kept up appearances and regulations. He'd have to have a talk with his sergeant about how Stroud handled more nuanced situations. Or have Carrot do it, he supposed. He turned back to Rosemarie, who was no longer sure of her footing. "Now, where were we? Ah yes. Lady LeJean. I need to speak with her. Privately if you don't mind."

"Yes Your Gr-"

"And please, don't call me _Your Grace_." He made a sour face. "As long as we're being so nice to each other, in private you can call me Mister Vimes. How about that?"

This seemed to make it worse. Calling Lady LeJean _Myria_ was one thing. But the Commander was a _Duke_ and had the ear of the Patrician. She shuddered and tried to recover some of her previous confidence. "Yes. I… of course. One moment." Forgetting herself to the point where she didn't even offer him a chair or something to eat, she fled to the rear of the bakery.

"The Commander of the Watch is here!" She hissed to Pars, who paled as well.

"The _Duke_ is here? In _our_ bakery? What does he-" he turned red. "_Myria_. It's always Myria," he muttered. "What were we thinking, Rose?"

She recovered a little more. "Don't start that again, it won't help anything now. We're arms-deep in dough. Complaining that it's stuck to our fingers now won't do any good." She took another deep breath. "What do we _do_?"

Pars shook his head. "Only thing we can. Go upstairs and get Myria."

"What if he's here to arrest her?"

"All the better for us then."

"Parsley Knäcke! You take that back!"

Pars cringed, "Fine, I take it back. It's not fair of me, I admit it. Rose my love, as long as you've known me, you know I shouldn't wish ill on any. But all of this." He gestured, taking in practically the whole world. "Everything put at risk, our family hurt." He shook his head sadly. "I don't know how to just forgive and forget what caused it all."

For the first time since Myria returned, Rosemarie felt she could see through her husband's anger to the hurt beneath. This was the man she married. Dedicated to family and kind-hearted. It was those strengths that had been working against him with respect to Myria. "I understand." She gave him a brief hug and felt his own tension ease slightly. "But I need you to stop focusing on what has _happened_ and help me deal with what's happening _now_. Can we stall him? Pretend she's not here?"

Pars shook himself slightly, and focused on the problem at hand. "No. Rose, he's had men around the bakery for days now. He _knows_ she's here. Trying to delay or make excuses is just going to make things worse."

He took a deep breath. "Bring her down."

* * *

Myria sat in a corner of the bakery. She could feel fear eating at the corners of her composure as she faced the man who, in Ankh Morpork, was probably as close to an Auditor as one could get among humans. The commander of the City Watch, humans said, was all about the law. And the law was the _rules_.

Vimes, for his part, found his first impression of Lady Myria LeJean to be a very mixed bag. For one thing, she expressed absolutely zero of the arrogance and sense of entitlement he had come to expect from most peers. Nor did she exhibit the injured pride and bloody stupidity he'd grown to know and hate from Rust and his ilk. His only other exposure had been those like his darling wife, whose family had been so wealthy for so many generations that pride had given way to a sort of absent-minded assurance that 'everything just works out'.

Lady Myria, in contrast, seemed excessively polite and slightly brittle.

And then there was the matter of some of the things she was supposed to have accomplished. Destroying several very dangerous kidnappers. Somehow depositing gold inside the flagstones of a building.

_Lady Myria LeJean, just what, exactly, are you? And what are you doing to _my_ City?_

He had hoped to speak to her completely privately, both because he had high hopes for how much information he'd get out of her, and because he felt some of the matters to be discussed might be best kept to as few ears as possible. The husband and wife had accepted immediately, probably hoping to stay as far away from him as possible. The nephew, who he had met previously, was apparently still recovering from recent injuries, which was another matter he intended to pry into at some point.

Unfortunately, he'd been unable to make any headway at all against the teenage daughter.

"Absolutely not."

"Jessica, I am sure that-"

"Hells no." She looked at Vimes. "Is Myria under arrest? Cause if she is, she's not talking until she gets one of those advocate things."

That seemed to startle him. _Good gods, is this what young Sam is going to turn into?_ The thought made him shudder. "No." he groused. "Lady Myria is not under arrest." Myria and Jessica both relaxed slightly at this. "Though I considered taking you," he nodded at Myria, "into custody for your own protection." He held up a hand to forestall the teen's verbal assault of protest. "But Captain Carrot pointed out, rightly so, that were I to make a habit of locking people up for their own protection, I'd have to put up half the population of The Shades for the night to protect them from the other half." He seemed to find this rather amusing. More amusing that either of the girls found the situation.

"Very well, Sir Samuel." Vimes noted that in that at least, Lady Myria was true to form for nobility. She had steadfastly refused to call him 'Mister Vimes' and had finally settled on 'Sir Samuel' to be far down from 'Your Grace' as she was willing to go. "Would you then communicate to us the purpose of this visit? It is clearly important, or you would not have done so."

_Good Lord, it's like listening to a polite and very simple version of Vetinari. _The Patrician was the only other person he knew who appeared to choose words so carefully. Vimes looked at Jessica Knäcke for a second. "Some of this discussion may be of a sensitive nature. Are you sure young Ms. Knäcke should be here?"

Jessica started to huff up again, but Myria forestalled it with a light touch on her shoulder. "Sir Samuel, I assure you Jessica is completely trustworthy in my affairs. We can speak of anything in her presence."

Vimes considered. Lady Myria had apparently rescued the girl, who had been kidnapped because of Myria in the first place. The fact that here they were on actual speaking terms should count for something.

"Fine." He addressed them both. "You understand that this situation is bigger than any of us?" He gave that a moment to sink in. "That…" he lowered his voice, "_gold_ is not going away. At this moment, I've got more gold than anyone living in this city has ever _seen_ in one place. And it's sitting in the cells at Pseudopolis Yard, looking about as innocent as a Thieves Guild convention." Myria looked uncomfortable, and Jessica's eyes widened a little. _Maybe that'll take some of the teenage attitude down a notch._ He shook his head. "To make matters worse, I've got Vetinari," Jessica winced at that name, "sending me messages _daily_ asking what the hell, pardon my language, I'm going to do with it."

"I see. Yes that does sound compl-"

"I'm not done. It was bad enough before _you_," he pointed a calloused finger at Myria, "popped back up in the land of the living. Before that point, there was some suggestion it might be," Vimes coughed, "_adopted_ by the city treasury, poor orphaned shiny metal, just looking for someplace to call a home." He chuckled without much humor. "Now that you are alive and well, frankly I don't know."

Jessica decided now was the moment to jump in. "But that's silly. It's Myria's isn't it? Can't she just get it back?"

Vimes gave a short, barking laugh. "Really? And just how will you get it out of the cells? And where will you put it? And can you prove it was hers?" He held up a hand as Jessica opened her mouth to protest again. "And on top of that, it's evidence of a crime." Vimes noted the different reactions, and felt a twinge of guilt. Jessica froze at the mention of the kidnapping, while Myria simply looked guilty and disturbed. This was for their own good though, and might help get through to them how serious the situation was.

"But what crime? Myria and I were the victims!"

"That's definitely what it looks like, and if it were that simple, we'd have had to return it immediately. But _you_ know, and _I_ know that there's more to it than that. I don't suppose you would be interested in explaining how a king's ransom got inside the floor of a house you were leasing from Rust? Help the watch with our inquiries?"

It's amazing how slow time can pass when you know the answer to a question, and you also know that giving that answer would be a Very Bad Idea, but don't have anything remotely reasonable to offer instead.

"That's what I thought." Vimes leaned back and rubbed his face tiredly. "Don't suppose you'd consider donating it to the city?" The idea wasn't his, and he personally didn't like it, but it might simplify things.

Had it been Myria alone, she would have said yes. _Surely, they would not insist I donate _all_ of the gold?_ And perhaps if needed she could produce more? The idea of doing so gave her a slight tightening sensation in the back of her head.

Jessica, on the other hand, just snorted. "Seriously? You want her to just give away most of her money. How is that not just a payoff?"

That hit a nerve with Vimes, and he struggled not to get angry. _This young lady is going to be trouble_. He counted to ten before answering, "It's only _bribery_ if you are getting something in return. In this case, I am _told_ it is more like voluntary tax. And I'm no happier about this than you are. The real problem here is Rust, who claims it is his property and-"

The reaction from both females was immediate: "That is an absolute falsehood," from Myria and "Why that slimy little weasel! I don't care if he is a Lord, that's a big fat lie!" from Jessica. Myria had appeared composed, only her face reddening in indignation. The young girl, on the other hand… he thought for a moment she was going to come at him from across the table.

Vimes decided that he liked Jessica, regardless of what it boded for his own future parenting experience, and Myria too, no matter what she might or might not be capable of. He let them both wind down. Rust was already, in Vimes opinion, the biggest tit on the face of the Disc. Making him the wealthiest one on top of that would be just too much.

"I understand your depth of feeling. But what that means is, you can't expect too much privacy for a while. Too many people know about this, and unless you hire some serious private security this is going to be nothing but trouble for you." Vimes didn't like the idea of private guards at all, though from time to time Willikins had served that purpose for his own family. But he also knew the Watch could not be expected to guard one family for days on end.

Myria frowned, "But the other nobility have money, and no one thinks to kidnap or harm them to obtain it. Why is this different?"

_Is she really that innocent?_ "Lady LeJean, those families are paid up with the Thieves Guild and have been for years, and you are not. And no one would dream of kidnapping a Venturi or a Rust because the wrath of the entire gentry would fall on them." _And if they kidnapped a Ramkin, there wouldn't be enough of the kidnappers left to bury_. Vimes realized that was something he and LeJean had in common, and was quiet for a few seconds.

"Sir Samuel?"

"Sorry." Vimes considered another lesson he had learned firsthand when he married Sybil Ramkin. "On top of that most of their wealth is tied up in land, estates, big bloody houses, and so on. I doubt they have much actual," he lowered his voice again, "_gold_ at any given time." He stared off into empty space as he mused. "Seems to me, they don't really spend, they just _have_." He locked eyes with Myria again, making her uncomfortable. "_You_ on the other hand, have more money than the Temple of Blind Io, sitting all in one place, crying out to be taken home and loved by half the city."

Jessica was beginning to actually understand the magnitude of the matter, and feeling very overwhelmed. For the first time in this conversation she was at a loss for what to say. So it was Myria that approached it more logically. "But I cannot pay the Thieves Guild dues because I do not have the gold now. And I cannot spend it here so as to become like them. So you see, I am in an untenable position."

Vimes rubbed his scar, a new habit he was trying to break himself of. "Yes. Yes that's a real quandary now isn't it? And I can't give it to you because I am not sure it's legally yours." That brought another outburst from Jessica, "Calm down, calm down. My _personal_ opinion is one thing, but I have to follow the rules. That brought vigorous affirmation from Myria and silent stewing from Jessica. _The real reason, _he thought to himself, _is you wouldn't make it 15 feet from the Yard if we tried._

He rubbed his scar again, and stopped himself with an effort. Sighing, he placed both hands on the table and gripped the edge. "I tell you, I don't need this." He felt at his pocket and began to pull out a silver cigar case.

Jessica narrowed her eyes at him. "There's no smoking in the bakery. The smell gets into the bread."

Vimes looked put out. _And I was just starting to like her too_. He put it away. "Fine. Well all that's left for now is this, then." He pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Myria.

"What is it?" Jessica asked as Myria read through it.

"It is a receipt, for the gold they are holding in custody, potentially on my behalf."

"Hmph. Fat lot of good that is."

"It's proof that we have something that we acknowledge is probably yours. That's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick." Vimes stood and the two followed suit. "Let me think about this. No promises. And for now, the guards stay. _For your protection_." He looked pointedly at Myria. "Just… _try_ not to do anything strange."

_Does he know?_ Myria thought with horror.

"Yes, I am aware of what happened at the kidnapping crime scene." He took them both in with a sweeping look.

Myria gasped and Jessica felt slightly ill. _Can he read my thoughts?_

"And _no_, I'm not a mind reader." He pointed at their expressions. "That's enough both of you. I'm a _copper_, no matter what all those other titles say. I read _faces_ not _brains_. And no I don't know how you did it, but I want nothing like that happening again. You understand me? Are we clear?"

Both of them nodded vigorously.

"Nothing left but dust." He shook his head in disturbed awe. "Three men and their weapons, and one door, turned to dust piled on the floor and the ground."

"And one gold bar, of course."

Vimes and Jessica both froze at that.

"What did you-" Vimes stopped and rubbed his stubbled chin. "I see. The ransom. You actually had it with you at the scene?"

Jessica was frantically trying to make hand signals at Myria that Vimes couldn't see, but that was practically a useless attempt[1][2].

Myria nodded quietly at Vimes, hoping she was not making a mistake.

"Well, well. Seems you and I are not done for the day after all." Vimes had an eager look on his face, and Jessica hoped they hadn't just made things worse instead of better. It was impressive the way he got the corporal back and soon had him splitting the watchmen into two groups, one to continue guarding the bakery and the second...

The second to accompany Myria to a certain crime scene near the Shades.

* * *

[1] For examples, See "Night Watch" by Terry Pratchett.

[2] Unfortunately for Jessica, anything subtle enough to get past Vimes would be so far over Myria's head it would practically be a new satellite.


	10. Like Stars in the Heavens

**10 Like Stars in the Heavens**

The commander was clearly used to being obeyed. Pars and Rosemarie found themselves unable to mount an effective defense, and in Pars' case he was not all that motivated to do so. Not having Myria's presence as a constant reminder for a few hours would ease his mind.

They did argue that Jessica should remain behind, and Vimes agreed.

Jessica argued halfheartedly against this, and loathed herself the entire time. She knew if she _really_ fought for it, she could have gotten in on the trip. But the truth was, Jessica was _terrified_ of that place. The mere thought of stepping within a hundred feet of that building made her go cold inside. She was afraid that if she went there with Myria, she would look at her friend and see that coldness in Myria's eyes, that emotionless face looking at her again.

"I'm sorry, Myria." She hugged her tightly as the exited the bakery.

"There is nothing you need apologize for, Jessica. I believe everything will be fine. And if I am incorrect, you would be unable to help."

Jessica pulled back and gave Myria a long look. "Well thanks for that."

"I am sorry?"

Jessica sighed[1]. "Sometimes the truth is not what you want when you're upset and feeling guilty." She gave Myria a friendly push. "Now go ahead. But be safe and come back soon. Okay?"

Had it been just Vimes and his men, they would probably have walked, but due to the sense of urgency and a need for more privacy, Vimes felt a coach was the better option. At his order, one of the constables flagged one down and Jessica watched them climb aboard with a sick feeling in her stomach.

* * *

It took less than a half hour to make their way to the abandoned cafe just off Attic Bee Street. Myria had to continuously fight the feeling that she had done this before, and resist the creeping, gnawing fear and dread that accompanied it. The commander for his part did not make things easier. He was generally not good at small talk for one thing, and for another he was still not sure where Myria fit in to his city.

_You, Myria LeJean, are an oddity. An interesting puzzle._ Vimes like puzzles, as long as they could be solved. _Little bit of an outsider, it seems. I bet Rust would hate you. Well, he already does because of the gold I'm sure, but even without that complication he'd hate you._

Vimes' shameless appraising of her did little to help her comfort levels.

It was a long ride.

When they arrived at the building, Myria saw that boards had been nailed across the opening and someone had painted in bright yellow letters:

**Cryme Seen**

Below that they had started to write:

**No Admi[squiggle]**

Which had been crossed through and replaced with:

**Stay Out**

Vimes looked slightly embarrassed and mumbled something about "Colon," before turning to one of the men who had accompanied him and gesturing at the door. "Tear that down."

"Yessir."

As the watchmen pried off the boards, Myria's feeling of dread ramped up with each one removed. Finally they stepped back from the opening.

The dark opening.

In her mind's eye, she began to see images from before, to again feel the coldness that had washed over her. _I cannot do this. Why can I not do this? _She imagined she could hear the slight whimpering sounds that Jessica had made as she knelt in that place. All the terrors of her first nights in the body were embodied in that doorway. It was a yawning pit beneath her feet, trying to draw her in and swallow her up.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and flinched. Turning to the commander, she realized that she was not _remembering_ sounds Jessica had made, it was _her_ throat making those noises of fear and distress.

Vimes face shown sympathy. "Lady LeJean, there is nothing left in there that can hurt you. Nothing in there that I will _let_ hurt you."

Myria swallowed. "I cannot… I cannot enter that place alone."

"Wasn't expecting you to." He appraised the three other men with him. "Anyone comes near this building, give a yell. No one else comes near this doorway. Understood?"

"Yessir." Two immediately flanked the door and the third, armed with a crossbow, walked across the street to stand in a doorway.

Vimes nodded in satisfaction, before turning back to Myria and offering his arm. "Shall we?"

Protocol. The contrast here helped. They were entering a place of fear, but his manner and form was that of a gentleman escorting a lady into a ballroom. Falling on protocol made the fear manageable. Taking a deep breath, she looped her hand around his steady arm, and they walked up the steps and into the gloom.

Just inside the doorway, Vimes paused and let his eyes adjust to the reduced light. It was still afternoon, and there was enough sunlight filtering in through windows and the open doorway that, given a minute to acclimate, you could see fairly well. Provided you were not dumb enough to look directly _at_ a window or the doorway.

Myria found herself trembling slightly, and willed her body, unsuccessfully, to stop. Vimes placed his hand over the one she gripped him with, and gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "I should have realized how hard this was going to be for you."

They stood there for a minute longer, Vimes waiting patiently for Myria to come to terms with being in that room again. She understood now, better than she could have before they had left, why Jessica should not and could not come with them. If she was affected this strongly, how would Jessica, who had truly suffered, be impacted?

Focusing on someone else's worries and cares seemed to help drag her outside her own. "I believe I can move forward now." She took a step to illustrate this, removing her hand from Vimes arm.

Vimes took the opportunity to survey the room, his keen eyes taking in details. The inches of gray dust still present throughout the room, with clear footprints leading too and from the back of the room near another open doorway. There, based on the reports he'd read, Jessica had been bound and that constable on loan from Bonk… Step-something, had found her. He stayed still, his copper instincts telling him that disturbing the dust further would not help matters.

Myria continued forward a few more steps, finally halting and pointing at a spot just in front of her. "Here," her voice was barely above a whisper. "I stood here, and I negotiated with the leader." Her voice shook. "But he was not to be trusted."

"No. Snakes was a really piece of work."

"He did not tell me his name."

"We found out from Jessica afterward." Vimes gave her a look. "You saved her life, you know. They let her hear their names, and both of you saw their faces. There was no way they were going to let you leave that building still breathing."

"I did not."

_What the hells was that supposed to mean? And why was the room suddenly slightly chill._ He shivered. "Lady LeJean?"

She hugged herself and shook her head slightly. "I am sorry. The memories are not pleasant." She surveyed the room again, trying to look at it analytically. "The one you call Snakes stood there," she pointed to a slightly mounded area of dust. "So the gold would have the highest concentration there as well."

Vimes noted that the spot where Snakes had… well _died_ for lack of a better term, was almost four feet in front of where Myria had indicated she had stood. He also realized the watchman in his head was jumping up and down, ringing an alarm bell. _Look at what you don't see_! It kept yelling at him.

_There_ was where Snakes had stood. Myria had stood _there_. Jessica in the back. Tracks leading to and from Jessica…

No tracks leading from where Myria had stood to the door, yet he could clearly see she was leaving footprints _now_.

_What exactly are you, Lady Myria LeJean?_ He mused yet again.

"Yes. This is where it should be," startled him out of his thoughts. He looked at where Myria pointed.

"I don't see anything there."

"It was significantly heavier than the other elements, Sir Samuel. It would have settled more quickly, and likely spread across a wide area as well."

"Still, shouldn't I see something? Flecks of yellow?"

Myria spoke without thinking. "No. It would be individual atoms, Sir Samuel. No single particle would be large enough to see." She saw the surprise on his face. Vimes, for his part, watched her face slide from casual response, to realization of what she had just said, through horror, and then resignation. "I am afraid I have provided you information I should not have."

Vimes grunted. "Bit late for that, isn't it?"

"Yes. I believe that to be a correct statement." She turned back to assessing the floor, and spoke quietly without looking at him. "Sir Samuel, would you be terribly insulted if I requested to be alone?"

"Insulted? No. But I'm not sure I want to miss this."

"Surely you have already ascertained what is to occur?"

"I have a rough idea. But that's not the same as seeing it with my own eyes." Vimes saw Myria's shoulders sag slightly.

It was one thing for him to suspect, or even know. It was another for a human to see her perform the task at hand, to see what she was not. _So be it._ "Very well. If I had the right, I would ask you to withhold judgment on me. To have… _mercy_ is perhaps not the right word. But I do not believe I have any justification for asking you to do so."

Vimes frowned. "That remains to be seen, LeJean."

_Was it no longer 'Lady' LeJean? How soon before it was not even that?_ Stifling the ache in her chest, Myria closed her eyes, stretched out her hands, and withdrew into the darkness. There, she pictured the room as it was, and then, with glacial slowness, what she _desired_ to it to be.

For several seconds, Vimes' eyes flicked from Myria, to the floor, and back repeatedly, wondering what the first noticeable change would be. At first nothing, then he thought he saw...

The dust… began to move. Imperceptibly at first, then swirling as if stirred by a gentle breeze that left it roiling a few inches off the floor. A light gray mist, insubstantial as fog[2], boiled and bubbled gently against the floor. It erased the previous footsteps that were the aftermath of the kidnapping, and also their own more freshly made ones. Vimes suppressed the urge to step backward. Not that he was squeamish about the remains of several dead men deposited on his shoes; it was just the unreality of the whole thing that did something unpleasant to his nerves.

Then he realized something else. The dust was beginning to… layer, somehow. He could see differences in color, what seemed to be the fine-ness of it, separating out. He held still, afraid even the act of stepping forward or back would stir it back up and foul whatever LeJean was doing.

Myria saw none of this, but she began to feel the first inkling of pressure inside her head. At first it was a resistance in her thoughts, but as she pushed against it, striving to enforce her will, she felt it change to a true physical pressure. First the back of her skull experienced the sensation, then as she pressed on, it began to migrate around to meet in her forehead and settle behind her eyes.

"You're separating it out. How the hells are you doing that?"

Her response was strained, "With much suffering," she let out a small gasp before continuing, "Sir Samuel."

Gradually Vimes realized that he could see hints of gold in the nebulous clouds of layered dust. As he stood dumbfounded, it coalesced into tenuous streams, the suggestion of gold turning into its clear evidence. The streams began, in a spiral pattern, merging into tiny rivers.

It was like watching a tiny, golden galaxy being born before his eyes. Agataean astronomers would have watched in rapt fascination, waiting for a globe of tiny golden suns to blaze into existence at its center.

Slowly before Vimes, the spiraling rivers of gold coalesced into a tight spiral, which further contracted to become an almost but not quite flat disc of rotating particles of gold.

Until, with a cry, Myria pitched forward and fell to her knees, her hands pressed against her temples as if trying to hold her head together. She tried opening her eyes, to see if she had succeeded, but the attempt brought a red-hot shaft of pain.

Vimes managed to tear himself away from the sight of the small, quickly spinning disc of gold with a slight bulge at the center, gradually slowing its rotation in a small clear spot on the floor. He stirred the recently layered dust into whorls and funnels as he went to Myria and bent down in concern.

"Do you need a physicker?"

"No." She gasped again, and felt suddenly nauseous. It was like when she had 'thrown up' the previous day. She gulped air, and tried again. "I… it hurts but I do not believe I am physically injured."

Vimes brow furrowed. "Are you sure? I could call Doctor Lawn and-"

She tried to shake her head, and stopped before making that mistake. "Sir Samuel," she whispered so that he had to lean closer to hear her, "how would I explain this to a physicker?"

"Not the first clue."

She stayed kneeling, gradually feeling the throbbing decrease and her stomach settle. "The pain is becoming less. I believe I may be able to stand, with some assistance."

Vimes helped her to her feet, where she swayed slightly, eyes unfocused.

Still holding her by one arm to help steady her, Vimes asked quietly, "What _are_ you, Lady LeJean?"

He felt Myria flinch. "I am… unique Sir Samuel," she murmured. "Is that sufficient answer?"

Vimes pursed his lips. _That was no explanation. Do I want to press for more now? _ The gold again caught his eye. _First things first._ Vimes leaned down, and hesitating as if it would bite him, picked up the now stilled disc.

Myria watched at him uncertainly. _What will he do? Will he arrest me? Keep the gold?_

_What manner of man are_ you_, Sir Samuel?_

Keeping his eyes focused on Myria, Vimes deliberately slipped the disc of gold into an inside pocket, and she sagged.

_So. It was all for nothing._ She could have wept in frustration, if her head didn't hurt so much.

* * *

[1] Being around Myria, she was learning to perfect that sigh. The practice would be very useful when she had teenage kids.

[2] This is a bit of artistic license. Anyone who has been through a serious Ankh-Morpork fog will tell you it is anything but insubstantial. When it got really thick, they tended to use Detritus as a fog-plow to ease the way.

[A/N this chapter revised 2/14/13 to fix a few plot problems and expand a few scenes]


	11. Fools Gold

**11 Fools Gold**

Between the lingering head ache and her despair, Myria had little interest in conversation as Vimes escorted her out of the building and back to the waiting coach. Leaving one watchman to board the café back up, he ordered the rest back onto the coach, one with the driver and one on the sideboard, and entered with Myria.

He was solicitous regarding her well-being, but that was of little consolation. Instead she withdrew into her own thoughts, barely hearing him.

_Which will it be? Will he take me to the bakery, keeping the gold? Or will he detain me in the cells, now that he knows what I am capable of? Either way, I am in no better condition than before, and perhaps worse._

_Have I made an error, in not remaining in the cemetery as I was? Was living simply a foolish desire, one that for my sins I cannot be allowed?_

Round and round her thoughts went in this vein, her mood becoming bleaker as the coach rumbled through the streets of Ankh Morpork and Vimes, realizing she was not listening, also lapsed into silence.

It was only the sudden cessation of movement and a "We're here, LeJean," that startled her out of her private suffering.

Composing herself as best she could, she allowed Vimes to assist her from the coach with what dignity she could muster, and took in her surroundings.

It was the Watch House. Pseudopolis Yard, if her memory was not faulty. Her heart sank even further. _So it is to be this, then._

Fighting against a wave of nausea, she found herself unable to move for a few moments, until Vimes gently took her arm. "This way," was all he said, and she blindly followed him into the building.

Inside, she felt exposed and vulnerable. The large common area, scattered with desks, was practically _full_ of watchmen. The presence of so many officers, with she in their midst and at their mercy, reminded her horribly of where she had been mere weeks earlier. Of furtively running from alley to alley, terrified that her fellow Auditors would fall upon her and end her existence. Though most of the watchmen here were ignoring her, each one that didn't made her feel like prey.

Something nagged at her senses in particular, and she felt her gaze drawn, against her will, to the left where she met one set of eyes in particular. Flinching, she instead looked at the floor.

It was the sergeant. Angua had been her name, and the dislike in her expression now was obvious. So was the implied threat in her eyes. Myria's arm ached at the memory.

_Worse and worse._ Taking a deep breath, she managed to face the Commander again. "I suppose our destination is the detention cells?"

Vimes looked surprised. "That was the intent, yes, but I didn't expect you to be in a hurry to get there."

"Why should we delay?" she imagined she could feel Angua still glaring at her, whether it was true or not. "I would prefer to not put it off."

She heard the Commander yell for someone. "Fred!" A watchmen hurried over, rather on the large side. He and Vimes had a quick and quiet conversation, and the man nodded and moved away.

"This way." Myria found that Vimes continued to be businesslike but considerate. That at least was better than she expected. Working their way through the busy room to the stairs, they descended to the lower cells. Several of the ones on this end contained other prisoners, including in one case a set of dwarves under direct guard by an unamused human constable. They appeared to be trying to include him in a sing-along.[1]

Had she known that this was the same path that Jonathon had taken mere weeks earlier, and the same location where Jessica had initially been brought, it might have cheered her slightly. The next door had another dwarf constable guarding it, and he unlocked it quickly and opened it as Vimes and Myria approached.

Beyond was a row of empty cells. At the far end, one seemed full of stacked objects. It was a bit difficult to see, however, because the way was mostly blocked by a _huge_ troll.

"Constable Bluejohn." Vimes nodded.

"Command'r Vimes Sir," the troll seemed to think for a second, then saluted[2] and moved aside.

When they reached the cell, and Vimes unlocked it, Myria realized that the cell was full of flagstone. A lot of flagstone. Enough flagstone, in fact, to cover the floor of a rather large and well appointed sitting room. Rather nice flagstone. And deceptively flagstone-like. But Myria knew them well, and what was inside them. Silently she cursed them in her heart, then took a breath. "So, I am to be kept here, with these? I would have to see them every moment." _Torture!_

Vimes eyebrows went up and he seemed confused. "Kept here? Woman why would you want to be kept here?"

Despair gave way to exasperation. "I do not!" She waved her arms, the most emotional expression he had seen from her. "I assumed I was to be detained. Why else would you bring me to the cells?"

Vimes looked surprised, "I didn't _think_ you were listening to me in the coach." His face softened into sympathy, then indignation. "LeJean, you are not under arrest. I told you before you had not, as far as I could tell, committed any crime." She flinched at that, and he noted it. "At least no crime that I am aware of." He pulled out a silver cigar case and rubbed his thumb across it. "I'm not even detaining you for your own protection. You're free to do as you please."

Now it was Myria's turn to be shocked. She felt it wash over her in a wave of relief, one that left her feeling lighter and slightly dizzy. "Then why? Why are we here?"

"Because you suggested it, remember?"

She realized with some surprise that this was true. "Then… you assumed I wanted to inspect these." She motioned to the pile.

"Well, yes. Since we were here. Though I thought you'd rather rest some first. That little performance at the crime scene seemed to take a lot out of you."

It was as if he were speaking a foreign language. She ran back through everything that had happened, trying to reconcile what she thought was occurring with what he was saying. None of it made sense.

"But…" her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping, "you took my gold from me. I thought you intended to confiscate it and…"

She stopped as she saw the expression on Vimes' face. His jaw tightened, she could see the muscles bunching and almost hear his teeth grinding, and his eyes narrowed.

Even worse, she heard a grating noise, like two rocks being slid across each other, and turned to see Constable Bluejohn looking at her and frowning too.

"Ma'am. Der Command'r don't take nuffin from nobody 'cept he gives a slippa paper what says der Watch has it." He thought for a second, then gave a careful nod and turned to Vimes. "Beggin yer pardon Command'r."

Myria turned to see that, somehow, Bluejohn's observation had drained some of the anger from his face. Taking her by the arm again, this time somewhat less gently, he nodded at BlueJohn and led her out of the cells, through the back of the main room, up another set of stairs, and into a sparsely decorated office. Closing the door, he turned back to her, and she stepped back from the look on his face.

"_Lady _LeJean_,_ I know you've been through a lot recently," he rumbled as he dragged a cigar out of the case, bit the end off, and with a slightly shaking hand, lit it.

_He is very angry with me. Like Jonathon was, but not like that Angua person was._

Vimes continued, "and I saw the state your parlour trick left you in." He drew the smoke into his mouth, and blew it out, taking some of his indignation with it. "So I'm going to forgive you for making what I consider a stupid assumption."

_Stupid?_ Myria felt her face redden and a surge of chemicals flooded her bloodstream. It made her feel… suddenly alert and no longer someone's victim. _Did this human… just call me stupid?_ "Sir Samuel," her voice seemed to have something wrong with it. It was vibrating in an odd way, "I am not _stupid_. I am perhaps the most intelligent cr- _person_ you will meet." Her hands curled into fists, and they seemed to be demanding she fling them at something. "It is not _correct_ to call me _stupid_ because hu- _people_ do not use correct words."[3]

Vimes stood for a second, cigar held up to his mouth and smoke trailing from one open corner of it like he was about to breathe fire on her. She wondered for a second if _he_ would strike her.

Then one corner of his mouth crooked up slightly, and he barked a short laugh. "Well," he managed, then lowered his cigar and turned his back for a few moments to lean against the desk. She could not be sure, but it appeared his shoulders were shaking slightly.

_Have I driven him to have some sort of physical malady?_ The change in his behavior took some of the… intensity out of her own reaction as well. She felt the previous surge of fierce energy fade rapidly.

Finally he turned back around, his face carefully blank. "Lady LeJean, I do believe I've finally found the second thing you will stand up for."

"I am sorry?" _It is impossible to keep up with him. _She pouted to herself. _He changes direction in his thinking before I can understand what he is saying._

He smiled slightly. "Don't worry about it. Let's start over." He held out his hand. "Name's Sam Vimes, Commander of the City Watch. You can call me various things, and at this point you may have a few in mind, but I suspect you'll prefer Sir Samuel."

Myria looked at him, completely confused. Perhaps she had, indeed, caused him mental injury. It appeared to include memory loss. _Would it be best to go along?_ She carefully extended her own hand, and he shook it gently. "I am Lady Myria LeJean." She considered for a moment. "You may call me Lady LeJean."

Vimes seemed to struggle for a second with controlling his face, then nodded. "Very well, Lady LeJean. You are here, in my office." He swept an arm. "Such as it is, under your own power. You are free to come and go as you please, though I ask that you take at least one of my men with you."

Carefully Myria turned this information over in her mind. _Alright_. "Thank you, Sir Samuel. May I ask, then, what the purpose was in bringing me here, instead of returning me to the bakery? And why you took-" she carefully reconsidered of her words as she saw a dangerous glint in his eye, "_temporarily_ took possession of my gold after implying that I could have use of it?"

Vimes gestured to a chair in front of his desk, and walked around to sit in his own. Several stacks of paper were upset in the process, and he studiously ignored them as they toppled to a larger mess on the floor in that area.

"That is a good question, Lady LeJean, and one deserving an answer. My purpose in bringing you here was because I wanted to get a feel for exactly what kind of person you are, and I didn't want to do that out on the street. As for why I took your gold and put it in my own pocket?" His smile broadened "My thoughts were, at that moment, that you," he pointed at her dress, "had no pockets, my lady."

Myria looked down at her dress, one very much lacking in pockets, and felt very, very stupid.

* * *

[1] "No no no… it's _Hi Ho. Hi Ho_. Not _Hi Lo Hi Lo_. And that better not have been a try at humor, because our tempers are a bit… _frayed_! I was going to say _frayed_!"

[2] And impressively did _not_ knock himself unconscious in the process.

[3] And strangely, she felt a sudden urge to hiss and make horrible swallowing noises. Since she already knew what the nasty Vimes had in its pockets, she resisted the urge. Oh yes she did, Precious.

**[A/N I know this is a short chapter, but it was there, and the ending of it just begged to be the ending of the chapter. I hope you enjoyed it!]**


	12. Bankers Hours

**12 Bankers Hours**

Myria was startled from her own musings by a knock on the door of the commander's office. She glanced at Sir Samuel long enough to see him hide his obvious amusement behind a carefully blank face, before clearing his voice.

"Come in."

Myria turned to see yet another watchman enter, a sergeant by the markings if she was not mistaken, and a dwarf by species. She also realized, with a slight shock, that the dwarf had apparently decorated his… no _her_, face with subtle pigments. It was similar to, though much less dramatic than, the treatment her own face had received a couple of weeks ago.

The dwarf regarded Myria with open curiosity, then addressed Vimes. "Sergeant Colon said you wanted to see me, commander?"

"Yes," he cast a deliberate glance at Myria before continuing, "I'd like your _professional_ opinion on this." Myria watched as Vimes carefully extracted the gold disk from an inside pocket.[1] She also observed that the dwarf's eyes widened and noted that her hands began to tremble slightly as she took it from him.[2]

Taking a deep breath, the sergeant seemed to calm a little as she bent to her task. Eyes staring into space, she hefted it in one hand and chewed on her glossed lip. "Well, I can go weigh it if you like. But just as a rough guess I'd say-"

"It is 2.194 pounds, sergeant, rounded to the nearest thousandths of a pound." Seeing the sergeant frown, Myria continued, "or if you prefer, it is two pounds and 3.106 ounces, again rounding to the thousandths of an ounce."

Vimes sat with his mouth slightly open, eyes darting between Myria and the sergeant. "Cheery[3]?"

The sergeant took a moment to find her voice. "I was going to say just over two pounds, sir.

Vimes turned narrowed eyes to Myria. "Now I know damn well you never got the chance to hold that today. How did you do that, LeJean?"

Myria felt her face redden. She really did need to learn to control herself better in these situations, but it was so _difficult_. "It is a… skill that I have. I estimate well."

"I see. Well you are just full of surprises." He gestured to Cheery again. "And would you say that it is pure, sergeant?"

"It is pure, Sir Samuel."

Vimes growled slightly, "I asked the _Sergeant, _LeJean."

"My apologies, Sir Samuel."

Cheery looked cautiously at them both. "Well, I'd have to run some tests to be sure. Measure weight versus density for example, but…" She brought the disk-shaped ingot up to her nose and sniffed it, and then to both their surprise, gnawed a tiny piece off an edge. Closing her eyes, Cheery chewed thoughtfully for a few moments and swished her mouth before swallowing. Opening her eyes, she continued, "I'd say it's pretty close to the pure thing."

Myria looked at her in horror. "Did you just… ingest some of that metal?"

Cheery reddened slightly, though it was hard to see through the beard. "Sorry, old habit."[4]

Vimes wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. _Enough of this nonsense._ Fixing Myria with raised eyebrows, he groused "Do you want a receipt for _that_, too?"

Myria considered carefully, watching Vimes' face as well as the dwarf's expression, trying to determine whether there was some verbal trap here. The dwarf seemed to be having trouble breathing. _Hmm_. "I do not believe that was a legitimate offer, Sir Samuel." She folded her hands in her lap. "I believe you are attempting to use sarcasm with me."

Vimes blinked, and Cheery's breathing difficulties appeared to increase. He'd never actually had anyone _call_ him on a comment like that. Usually they either just ignored it, or missed the point and walked into the trap with eyes wide open. He shook his head. "Never mind." He held out his hand, "Thank you, sergeant."

Reluctantly, Cheery started to hand the gold back over. "Sir," she hesitated, "do you realize how much this is worth?"

Vimes smiled grimly and held up his hands, "I have my suspicions. Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

She fidgeted and caressed the ingot with two forefingers, "Well, I'm not sure what the exact current market rate is, sir, but it's about $3,200 AM per ounce, so it would be about $100,000 worth of gold in your hands sir."

"Actually, sergeant, it would be $118,587 dollars, 38 pence, one halfpence, and 32/100 of a pence remaining." She cringed. Part of her brain appeared to be on autopilot, linked directly to her vocal facilities. "Of course, that is not including the approximately 3/100 of a pence which the sergeant has ingested."

Vimes covered his face with both hands. "LeJean, _will_ you _stop_ doing that?"

Myria examined her hands sadly, and swallowed. "Unfortunately, Sir Samuel, it appears that I cannot. I have _tried,_ twice now."

Vimes lowered his hands just enough to see over them. She wasn't taking the piss with him. He could tell. And he didn't have the heart to beat her up over it. It would be like kicking a puppy. Granted, a puppy who could turn three very dangerous men and a gold bar to dust and then reverse part of the result to get _that_, but still. He sighed. "Sergeant, I have an errand for you to run."

"Yessir."

* * *

It turned out that Myria would not be taking yet _another_ coach ride today, at least not immediately. Instead, Commander Vimes issued brief instructions to Cheery and, with Myria's agreement, gave the dwarf temporary custody of the gold ingot.[5]

Thus Myria found herself, for the first time that day, outside walking the streets of Ankh Morpork a free individual in the presence of only one watchman, who was in fact not a man neither by gender nor species. One who was, in fact, not protecting everyone else from Myria but possibly the reverse. Of such situations are bonds forged.

"You are wearing makeup," Myria hazarded after they had gone a block or so.

Cheery snorted. "You're observant."

"You are a female then, I presume?"

Myria had to slow to match Cheery's pace for a moment. The dwarf looked away for a moment before answering slowly. "Yes… but it's not considered polite to point it out. Do I make comments about your…" Cheery looked Myria up and down[6] and huffed, "well, whatever I might comment about." She considered again. "Did you know, you have some sort of white powder all over your dress?"

Myria looked down, and felt a pang at the state of her dress. "Oh dear. I do. It is likely flour. Or possibly baking powder." She swatted at it, raising a small white cloud and improving it somewhat. "Am I insufficiently attired to appear in public?"

"I doubt anyone will notice once they see this." Cheery gestured to the small leather satchel under her arm. There had been some discussion about taking security measures. On the one hand, it was only about ten blocks. On the other, the sheer amount of gold involved would seem to make them a target. They even considered placing the gold in a locked metal case and handcuffing that to Cheery's wrist.

After a bit more discussion, they nixed that idea based on the fact that first off, doing so would just draw more attention to them and secondly, handcuffing over $100,000 AM worth of gold to your right wrist (on the assumption it would keep it from walking away in someone else's possession) was a great way to gain the nickname of "lefty" for the rest of your life.[7]

"I see," Myria responded. "But still I believe I shall have to purchase additional clothing, yet again." She paused. "I find that I suddenly remember, that my prior purchases were never delivered to my residence on Kings Way. I believe they attempted to do so, but finding the residence destroyed likely returned them to the clothier. I wonder what became of them."

"Who was it?"

"The establishment was entitled _Bullworth's Exclusive Designes_."

Cheery's gave a low whistle. _Wow. Well, I guess I should have expected something more than a few steps above the local shonky shop._ "Well," she thought for a second. "That should be easy enough." Stopping for a minute, she recognized a lean youth headed the other direction and whistled him over. Myria watched in surprise as Cheery gave him a brief message she wanted delivered to Bullworth's and paid him two pence with another two pence to be paid upon confirmation of message delivery. The youth hurried off, and Cheery mused, "That shouldn't take long. Wouldn't be surprised if they had them waiting for you at the bakery when you get back."

"I do not understand. How did you know he would deliver your message? And you paid for a message to be delivered on my behalf."

"Didn't you see the little badge or button pinned to his collar? Not everyone has a servant to run messages for them; lately we've had more freelancers about. The Watch have even used them for official business a few times. And as for the cost, call it payment for items previously eaten."

"But the amount of," Myria almost said _gold_ out loud, but at Cheery's frantic waving changed it to "_material_ ingested was surely worth less than the cost of the message."

Cheery laughed. "I'm sure you're good for it."

"Thank you sergeant. You have been most kind."

"Call me Cheery."

The dwarf actually smiled, and Myria responded in kind. "I will do so. You may call me Myria.

That settled, they continued on another block in silence. Myria felt, somehow, more was expected. She took a wild guess at appropriate subject matter. "I… I find your shoes pleasing."

Cheery actually beamed. "Really? Thanks." She paused and lifted one, showing off more of the side. "I had them custom made here locally."

"Yes." Myria nodded. "Yes I can see how that would be required. I do not recall seeing iron-shod boots with three-inch heels during my shopping with Jessica."

Cheery started. "Jessica Knäcke?"

"The same, " Myria supplied hesitantly. _Does Cheery know of what happened?_

"How is she doing?"

"She is much improved. She was working in the bakery this morning."

"I'm glad to hear that." Cheery chewed on the edge of her beard for a moment. "She wasn't in good shape at all when we found her." Myria tried to hide her reaction, but apparently didn't succeed. "Sorry, I forgot for a second that you were involved, too." Another pause. "Not to pry but, what exactly did happen in that café?"

Myria felt all the warm feelings of camaraderie flee. "I would rather not discuss it. It is quite painful."

"Sorry. Forget I asked."

_Humans keep saying that. And it makes me… angry. Forget forget forget._

That put a stop to the conversation for another block, until Myria's anger faded and she thought about a question of her own. "Your name. _Cherry_. Are you named after the fruit? What is the significance of that?"

Cheery reddened slightly. "I'd rather not discuss it. It's spelled different. And no, it's nothing to do with the fruit."

"My apologies. Pray pretend I did not ask."

Cheery stopped and gave Myria a long look. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No! I am just… attempting to fit in."

"Oh. Ok." _Foreigners are just plain odd_, Cheery mused, then looked around. "Ah, well here we are."

Myria gazed at the building in front of her. Her Auditor-derived senses made note of the number of columns, the sheer volume of space that the building must occupy, and the estimated cubic feet of stone required to frame that space.

The more newly minted human senses admitted, grudgingly, that it looked quite impressive.[8]

"And here, we will place that," she nodded to the leather bag, "for safekeeping and in return?"

"In return, they will give you Ankh Morpork coins and, as the commander mentioned, a letter of credit that you can draw on. I understand that you can also write IOUs against it."

"An IOU? What is that?"

"Um… it's like a promise. 'I Owe You'. Like what we did with the messenger fee but in writing, I guess."

"I see. And this will make me safer?"

"Trust me, it's a lot safer than what you've been doing. Just carrying this around gives me the shivers. It's like painting a target on my helmet."

Myria considered that, for several weeks, she had carried a slightly larger version of this around with her, and suddenly felt very unsteady. _The most intelligent and most stupid creature in Ankh Morpork, both at once. _The dichotomy made her want to curse and laugh at the same time. Shaking her head, she took a deep breath. "Very well, let us proceed."

A very old uniformed human opened the door for them as they reached the top of the steps. Once inside, Myria felt that there was… something… that seemed to change the very air. It was similar to the feeling that Susan and Jonathon had experienced in Small Gods Cemetery a few days earlier.

She halted, and had to force herself to speak even at a whisper. "Do you feel that?"

Cheery blinked, looked around the room, and then shrugged. "What?"

"There is something about this place. It feels different than outside the doors. It is like…" she struggled to find the words, "It is as if it is creating its own reality here."

Cheery frowned, gave the room another slow scan. Then she inhaled deeply. "Nooo… can't say that I feel anything like that," she responded in a low tone. "Smells like leather and old money to me. Feels like a museum."

The interior, like the exterior of the building, was designed to impress. Myria noted the obvious wealth implied in each aspect of the architecture. Large interior columns framed the walls, made out of what appeared to be an expensive white marble. The floor likewise was a pattern: islands of very thick and expensive looking carpet framed by equally expensive marble tiles.

Scattered along the sides of the room were heavy desks wrought from dark wood, the tops covered in pale green leather that was worn along the corners by years of use. Along the wall opposite the door was a long counter with windows. Closer to the door were several leather sofas where, she supposed, customers might wait if they wished.

This room spoke of time arrested. Of things that did not change. Of permanence and stability. It reminded her in many ways of the glass clock. _It is no wonder_, she shuddered, _that a human was easily enticed into building that device. They seek permanence, but the only permanence is in the _lack_ of change._

There were few customers. Most stood at the counter conducting transactions with the humans behind the window. Only one sat in front of one of the large desks, apparently conducting more complex business with the bank employee seated there.

Myria found herself unsure what to do next, and was relieved when Cheery took the lead.

"Wait here for a moment," the dwarf indicated the sofa as she made her way to one of the windows. There were a few awkward moments before the teller there realized that there was, in fact, a physical body below the counter level associated with the voice.[9] It was less than a minute before Cheery, slightly red-faced, returned and motioned Myria to follow to one of the desks off to the side with two chairs in front of it.

The rather early-middle aged, Myria estimated, human raised his head from his desk as they approached. Myria could see that the desk was very neat, which met her approval. He had apparently been totaling up figures on a sheet of paper, for she could see where he had been performing sums. She found it curious, however, regarding his technique.

"May I help you?"

_It appears, to be more specific, that he is adding the figures in a stepwise fashion, starting with the column where the single cents would be._

*Cough Cough*

_Following from there, he would add the next digit above the ten cents column. _

"Um. Lady LeJean?"

_Of course, that seemed very inefficient. Surely, being a professional who dealt with numbers on a daily basis, he could simply add the numbers using only internal methods?_

"Myria!" someone hissed and poked her arm, startling her.

"One thousand two hundred fifty two dollars and twelve cents!" she gasped.

"_What_!? What was that supposed to mean?"

Myria stood with mouth open, looking from Cheery to the bank employee. Cheery looked completely bewildered, as did the man behind the desk, but only for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked down at the numbers on his desk.

"I… I am sorry. I…" sighing, Myria sat down and examined her hands. Cheery, shaking her head, sat as well.

"Sorry about that sir, Lady LeJean would like to-"

"One moment. My apologies, but give me one moment, if you please," was the terse response from the clerk as he furiously ran his finger down columns of numbers and began making notations. After an uncomfortably long number of seconds, during which his face began to redden slightly, he sat and peered suspiciously at Myria.

"One thousand two hundred fifty two dollars, and twelve cents." He gripped the pen tightly in his hand. "The cents I can understand. You could have read them upside down, as I had already added them. But the rest? You added those sums, in your head, upside down?"

Cheery, now realizing what had happened, seemed to sink down in her seat slightly, with a death grip on the leather case. _Hooboy_.

"I… I am sorry. Would I be correct in guessing that I have violated some protocol?"

"No my lady, but I must admit I am amazed. I must assume, based on your bearing and your escort, that you have not come to apply for a career at the Royal Bank." He smiled with little humor and shifted his glasses further up his nose. "But I confess a feat such as you just displayed would ensure you a bright future here."

"Oh! I thank you, Mister…" her eyes fell on the engraved nameplate on the desk, "I should say, Junior Clerk Mortimer Combs, but I am at this time interested in opening an account with your institution and making a sizeable deposit."

"I see." The clerk shifted gears smoothly as he, equally smoothly, swept the current paperwork from his desk into a waiting folder and placed it out of sight, before equally smoothly pulling a series of blank forms from another drawer. "Then let me be the first to welcome you to the Royal Bank of Ankh Morpork."

"Thank you, Junior Clerk Combs."

Pen poised over the form, Mr. Combs began what was, to him, a very routine series of basic questions. Unfortunately for Myria, it turned into a very extensive series of mental gymnastics. When you are an Auditor become human, your age is either months or millennia, and neither would work in this instance. She did everything she could to provide reasonable answers, sticking to at least one interpretation of the truth at every opportunity.

Finally that portion of the process was complete. Myria realized, to her shock, that there was a light sheen of moisture on her forehead. _Interesting_. Cheery, for her part, looked slightly bored and was still mumbling from time to time about "heightist bank tellers".

"So you see, Lady LeJean, this will be your account reference number. But of course, were you to forget it, you need only provide your name. And we will have your signature to verify identity.

"My signature. How can my signature confirm my identity?"

To his credit, he did not even blink.[10] "Every person's signature is distinct, my lady. If I were, for instance, to attempt to write your name, it would still differ stylistically from the manner in which you write it." He rotated the form around to face her, and offered an ornate quill pen.

Myria hesitated. She had not realized the importance of this, and she suspected that each of the three times she had previously signed her name, there had been slight variations in the size of various letter, the arc-angle of many of the loops, and the length of almost every line.

Which one should she use as the permanent basis for her signature?

She heard a coughing sound from her left, and turning her head she beheld Cheery, who rolled her eyes and mumbled "Sometime this week, Myria."

Steeling herself, Myria settled on her first signature as the standard, and repeated it.

Loop for loop, line for line, and exact duplicate.

_There. That should be sufficient, _she thought, trying without success to ignore the suffering sigh of Cheery next to her.

"Marvelous, my lady. Now. Do you have a letter of credit from your Genua bank, or will we be depositing a note from a local merchant with whom you have done business?"

Cheery jumped into the gap at this moment, tired of the endless questions, answers, and writing. The novelty had long since worn off. "Oh neither of those, Mr. Combs. Lady LeJean wishes to use this as her initial deposit," she volunteered, opening the leather satchel enough that its contents gleamed in the otherwise dim light of the bank.

In the reflected golden glow that washed over Mr. Combs's glasses, she could see from his reaction that maybe, just maybe, she should have warned him first.

* * *

[1] gollum! gollum! Err…. (author hangs head in shame)

[2] The relationship between dwarves and gold is very different from the relationship between humans and gold. Most humans see gold as, usually, a means to an end. Most dwarves on the other hand see gold as something you cut people off at the knees to obtain, then take home and cuddle up with on a cold evening.

[3] Note that the Commander pronounced this like "Cherry" not like "Cheery". There's a long story here, but it's one that Pratchett tells better than I could.

[4] Worth noting is the fact that swallowing a bit of gold does no harm to the swallower nor the swallowee and, if you have no other way, is one altnernative method for transporting it without notice by nosy humans. Of course, later recovery can be a bit messy. Oh, and it makes the demand of "_your money or your life_" a bit redundant, too.

[5] We will continue to use the word ingot, though it is not really appropriate, because blob doesn't really do it justice, it's not a nugget, and miniature galactic disk seems a little excessive.

[6] More up than down. Sorry! Sorry! It was a joke! *muffled sounds of author being assaulted at groin level*

[7] See for clear examples every single stupid spy or gangster movie you've ever watched where some poor moron agrees to this and later regrets it with extreme prejudice.

[8] The Royal Bank of Ankh Morpork looked, as Mr. Moist Von Lipwig would later suggest, very much like a temple. See _Making_ Money by Sir Terry Pratchett.

[9] Dwarves are unsurprisingly not known for opening bank accounts. When you have the ability to dig your own vault hundreds of feet below the surface and have a reputation for running at people with an axe screaming, the idea that a bank would be somehow a safer place for your wealth becomes a bit laughable. As a result, AM banks have been slow to alter facilities to accommodate their, um, stature.

[10] As anyone in any 'customer-facing' service industry will tell you, the range of oddness in customers is, for all intents and purposes, infinite. And the longer you have worked in that business, the more likely you are to have met all of them.


	13. An Unfolding of Events

**14. An Unfolding of Events**

"Havelock, I insist that you have that _watchman_ release _my gold_!" Lord Rust mustered all the injured dignity he could muster which was, considering his age and conceit, rather a large amount, and placed his hands on the edge of Vetinari's desk. The Patrician for his part merely raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the hands in question, until Rust finally removed them and began pacing, still muttering, "It's scandalous. For over a week, he has kept it locked in his cells, as if _my gold_ itself were some sort of _miscreant_, claiming it is part of a 'crime scene'." Rust stopped and again fixed his watery glare on Vetinari before allowing the hint of a smug smile to show through. "What will it be next, eh? Will that buffoon arrest the residence on King's Way as well?" He chuckled inwardly at his own fathomless[1] humor.

Vetinari frowned a moment. "Indeed. All matters considered, my Lord Rust, I do not recommend you suggest that to Commander Vimes." Vetinari picked up an apparently blank piece of paper from his desk and seemed pointedly interested in it, while noting with some satisfaction a slight increase in foam at the corner of Rust's mouth at the mere mention of Vimes' name. "And I especially do not suggest mentioning the idea within range of Captain Carrot's hearing." He set the paper back on his desk. "The Captain tends to have a somewhat linear manner of thinking. You are aware that early in his career, he actually attempted to arrest a brick wall for assault[2]?"

Lord Rust shook his head. "I don't have time for silliness, Havelock. Nor will I be distracted. I _demand_ the return of my gold!"

"You… demand." Vetinari sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. Seconds stretched into aeons as Rust began to realize, with the pace and inevitability of an iceberg drifting into a suddenly uncomfortably warm ocean, that he might have overstepped somewhat. Clearing his throat, he continued in a quieter voice. "Well… it _is_ my gold, Havelock. Surely he can't keep it forever."

"Of course not, My Lord. It is, of course, inevitable that the gold eventually be placed in your possession, especially considering the prior claimant appears to no longer be among the living. Ah, Drumknott."

Rust would have _sworn_ that Vetinari spoke the name _before_ the door opened and the secretary in question entered the room. Gliding softly and quietly to the Patrician's side, in the manner of all hypercompetent assistants the universe over, he placed a rather thick folder on Vetinari's desk and quietly whispered a few words in his ear.

"Ah. Thank you Drumknott." Vetinari smiled. Had there been a cat in the room and an unexplained absence of canaries, you would have seen a very similar expression on the feline's face. "It appears, my Lord Rust, that in this one particular… the situation is suddenly much less clear."

Rust stiffened. "Impossible Havelock. The residence is my property and has been for some time. The flagstones are mine as well, installed by tradesmen that I hired. And as you say, the prior _pretender_-"

"Ah, but you see, it appears that there is another credible claimant, after all. I have only now received word from Commander Vimes," Rust's mouth worked for a moment, and Vetinari noted the foam production seemed to ramp up slightly, "that the late Lady LeJean has been discovered to be, in fact, not."

Rust's hands spasmed. "Not? Not _what_?"

"Not _late_, it appears. He opened the folder in front of him, scanning over the scrawled and frankly illegible handwriting on the top sheet. "It seems Lady LeJean visited Pseudopolis Yard only today, and _personally_ inspected what she still considers her property. The _gold_ I assume, not the flagstone which is, I am sure, still indisputably yours."

Rust rocked backward as if struck. "This… this…" he turned and staggered slightly in a circuit about the room, muttering again and cranking the spittle production up to eleven, before halting in front of the desk again. "This is a _travesty_!" Vetinari leaned to the side slightly, smoothly avoiding a slight spray of saliva in the process. Drumknott, however was not quite so lucky. "A… a _miscarriage_! A… A…"

"An insult upon your person, My Lord?" Vetinari arched an eyebrow as he supplied helpfully.

"Yes! That as well! No! It's worse than that. It is an insult upon _reason_!"

"Well then. I would suggest you lodge a protest with Commander Vimes." Rust began turning colors. _Good lord, was the man going to suffer a stroke?_ Vetinari turned back to his paperwork. "I'm sure it would be to your advantage to do so, _without _delay."

Rust, apparently not taking the hint, or past caring, remained standing. "You will be hearing from Slant, Havelock. Mark my words."

Vetinari sighed without looking up. "With what, pray?"

"What? What?"

Raising his head, Vetinari fixed Rust with a blank look. "With what should I mark them?"

Rust was beyond subtlety, even moreso than usual. He merely stood still, adding to the increasing salival-foam content of the room, looking both confused and angry.

"Lord Rust, we are, to my regret, a city of laws." He frowned, then qualified the statement. "At least on balance, with the remainder of our functionality appearing to run on some form of inertial sloth. I cannot simply wave my hands and release the gold into your custody." Drumknott again leaned over Vetinari's shoulder and whispered briefly. "Ah. It appears I fact that I could. But it would, I'm sure you would agree, set a dangerous precedent."

This calmed Rust slightly. Power he understood, but choosing not to exercise it was a talent he found himself too old to learn. "Bah. In what way?"

"For one, it is probably a violation of some fundamental law of government for gold to move from its own custody, albeit temporary, to that of a citizen without a significant amount of legal wrangling. Most likely, we would all be sued for _insufficientia locupletare gildam attornatos.__**[3]**_ For another, I look forward to watching events unfold, just as I look forward to the space you currently occupy becoming immediately vacant."

Rust stood for a few seconds, trying to wrap his mind around a meeting that had not gone at all according to plan. "But…"

"That was goodbye, Lord Rust. I would not wish to detain you."

* * *

As the door closed behind Rust and Drumknott, Vetinari stood and walked to the window. Events would, he was sure, unfold rather more quickly now. Especially when Vimes received the instructions, sent less than an hour before, to escort Lady LeJean to the Palace for some… consultations.

Vetinari smiled. Very interesting, indeed, especially considering the folder on his desk. A folder which contained, in part, information on every noble family in Genua… which included an absolute lack of anyone by the name of LeJean, Lady or otherwise.

* * *

[1] Or perhaps bottomless is a better word? Lacking in bottom? Sad really, isn't it?

[2] To be fair, the wall _had_ in fact dropped a large number of bricks on one of his fellow watchmen. It was only after determining that then-constable Detritus had in fact punched the wall first that Carrot was convinced it might have been self-defense.

[3] Roughly translated, cheating the Guild of Attorneys out of a very lucrative contract by giving in too easily.


	14. Bright and Shiny Things

**14 Bright and Shiny Things**

"Close that bag!" Junior Clerk Combs managed in a strangled voice. Seeing the dwarf comply, he reached above his head for the speaking tube, blew in it for a moment, and then after some struggle managed a "Senior Clerk Spittle, your immediate assistance please, sir."

An older man, who could only be Senior Clerk Spittle, entered through a side door a few moments later. The eyes of the clerks sitting at the other desks followed him as he approached Combs' desk. Finally reaching it, he pushed his thick glasses a bit further up his nose before addressing the junior clerk. "Yes yes Combs, what seems to be the problem." Combs found that now that Spittle was there, it was difficult to form more than a few disjointed syllables. "Mister Combs, you are incoherent. Take a deep breath. There's a good man. Now. What can be the matter?"

"Senior Clerk Spittle, this lady wishes to open an account. Her initial deposit is in that satchel, but…" he lowered his voice, "it is most irregular."

"Irregular."

"Yes sir."

Mr. Spittle looked at the dwarf and lady before him[1]. "Very well, what is it?"

"Gold, sir."

The Senior Clerk raised his eyebrows, giving him a slight owlish look. "Well, yes that is _somewhat_ irregular, but you _are_ trained in the proper process for handling transactions in actual gold coin as well."

The relatively younger man stiffened and drew himself up slightly. Coughing slightly he managed to regain some of his original dignity, "Senior Clerk Spittle, it is a _considerable amount_ of gold."

Spittle's eyebrows lowered. "Really. A _considerable amount_ of gold?" He looked at the satchel in Cheery's hands and noted its possible volume.

"Yes sir. A _considerable amount_ of gold."

Myria felt her concern grow as she watched the exchange. _This was a bank. Surely a deposit of gold could not be this unusual and alarming?_

"I see." He extended his hand to the dwarf. "May I?"

With some reluctance, Cheery handed the bag to the senior clerk, who, upon taking it paled slightly as he felt the weight of it. _Perhaps the satchel is also padded_, he considered, _but still_. Immediately he began noting the number and locations of the other individuals in the bank, including how much attention they were paying to the current discussion[2]. Satisfying himself that no customers were more than passing curious, he lifted the bag closer to his face, and opened it slightly.

The gentle reflection of gold seemed to be stronger than the light of the room itself, and Myria was sure she felt the weight of it pour through the small gap and into the room. It was as if the color, the essence of the gold were a physical force, distorting the very air in the room.

It appeared to make Senior Clerk Spittle momentarily unable to breathe. His eyes, already slightly enlarged through his thick lenses, widened further. Clearing his throat, he closed the satchel. "Yes. I do indeed see. _Considerable_." Carefully hugging the satchel to his body, he leaned over and read the information from the already completed forms. "Lady Myria LeJean, as a special customer, we would prefer to handle your account in a more discreet fashion. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?"

Myria stood immediately, relieved to be making some progress. "Yes. Of course Senior Clerk Spittle." The junior clerk placed the sheaf of forms into a folder, which he carried with him as he arose as well.

Cheery rose, intending to accompany the group, when Spittle paused. "I'm sorry, constable. While I appreciate the services your officers provide to our bank, it is policy that only a legal representative may accompany a client to the back offices."

"Surely there is no harm-" Myria began.

"The bank has a strict policy regarding account discussions, my lady." He smiled, not unkindly, at the dwarf. "Surely you were here only to ensure her safety, which you have done admirably. I do not mean to be rude, officer, but we must adhere to our own policies. Surely, you understand."

Grumbling under her breath, Cheery gave Myria a wave and turned back toward the main doors. Myria was sorry to see her go, as she truly felt they were beginning to become friends.

Once they passed through the side door where Spittle had previously entered, he turned to the younger man. "Combs, please leave the folder with me, and ask Miss Drapes to join me in my office."

"Yes sir."

Entering one of several small offices along the hall, Spittle waved Myria to a seat and took his seat behind the desk. "Miss Drapes should be joining us momentarily. Meanwhile we can make some headway with the remaining paperwork."

"Is this necessary, Chief Clerk Spittle?"

"Please, call me Mister Spittle, my lady. And yes, a deposit of this size in tangible assets always requires special handling." He leaned forward, "For example, there are situations where the depositor may not wish the exact value to be known outside of the bank itself." Myria blinked, unsure of his reasoning. "We are very discreet, you see."

"If course. I-"

They were interrupted by a knock at the door, which opened without waiting for Spittle to answer it. A thin and pale woman entered.

"Ah. Miss Drapes, thank you for joining us." .

"Of course, Mister Spittle." She turned to Myria, "Lady LeJean, please allow me to welcome you as a new depositor to the Royal Bank of Ankh Morpork."

"Thank you."

"Mr. Spittle?"

Carefully and reverently, Spittle opened the bag fully and gently extracted the heavy ingot from it, placing it on the desk as if it were fragile and not, in fact, nearly indestructible. There were a few moments of silence as they basked in its golden radiance.

Finally Miss Drapes smiled. "I shall fetch the medium scales, Mister Spittle. Please do carry on." She swept from the room with a lighter step.

"Very well," he caressed the gold lightly before clearing his throat and becoming businesslike again. "Will you be retaining the full value of the deposit as a letter of credit, my lady?"

"No Mister Spittle. I would require a portion in coin for immediate purchases."

"Of course. How much would you require?"

"I am not sure. Enough to purchase a few changes of wardrobe," she considered the current living arrangements, "and perhaps a few weeks of lodging at La Extravaganzia, and monies for other incidental purchases." Myria paused to do some very basic calculations. "I believe $600 in coin would be sufficient."

Spittle nodded. "That would present no problem whatsoever, Lady LeJean. However I would be remiss if I did not point out that many of the reputable businesses in town will also accept a draft promissory note against the letter of credit itself." He paused. "It would prevent you needing to carry as much coin about your person. While the Thieves Guild," he shuddered "can be trusted not to bother you, there are still common ruffians willing to risk the wrath of the guild if the amount is sufficient.[3]

Myria felt a thrill run through her. _I had forgotten about the Thieves Guild_! This was of slight concern, but also relief. While she considered it was not good that she should forget something so important, perhaps this was a positive sign that she would soon be able to forget other things that she did not wish to remember quite so clearly.

"Unfortunately, Mister Spittle, that is an area where I am currently lacking. I am not paid up with the Thieves Guild." To her surprise, this did not seem to worry him.

"Not a concern, My Lady. I believe that, for a client such as yourself, Miss Drapes will likely _insist_ we handle that item for you as well." He shuddered again. The bank itself had nothing to fear from the Thieves Guild; Vetinari had long since explained in no uncertain terms what would happen should they decide the Royal Bank was fair game. However, many of the long-time bank employees still considered relations with them akin to associating with common criminals.

"That would be most convenient, Mister Spittle. Thank you again. And based on your kind advice, I believe $100 should be sufficient for expenses."

"Again, the least we can do for a valued customer." Spittle pulled out three very elaborate looking forms from his desk. Myria could see that the paper was very thick and heavy, with small threads of some fiber running through it and patterns of multicolored inks. It was quite pretty and appealing in its own way.

Taking the least elaborate of the three, Spittle dipped pen in ink, and with a few final questions filled in the required information on one form, blotting and drying and handing to her. "This document is merely an internal request for disbursement against your account. When our affairs here are complete, I will take you to a teller where they will exchange this for the amount of coin indicated here." He indicated the amount they had agreed upon. "You may of course specify at that time what denominations you wish."

"I see."

A second, and more elaborate document was produced, which he handled with some distaste. "This documents the receipt, on behalf of the Thieves' Guild, of a sum totaling $5,000." A copy will also be filed with the Guild today, but it is a good idea to keep this copy on your person until you receive verification from them."

"Yes. Thank you Mr. Spittle."

There was another knock at the door, and again it opened without waiting for a response. Myria noted that Mister Spittle reached out with both hands toward the gold, as if to protect it from attack. _It is likely_, she mused, _that were there a threat he would look to its safety before mine_. The thought amused her but was also worrisome. She had known, in a vague way as an Auditor, that humans coveted gold, but was it truly this extreme?

"Ah, Lady LeJean, may I introduce Chief Cashier Bent."

The man who now entered the room caused that line of consideration to flee. For one thing, he seemed to float into the room almost independently of the movement of his feet, which he picked up and set down in a strange circular motion so that his footsteps made almost no noise. Likewise, his face seemed to hold absolutely no humor whatsoever.

_Auditor!_ her senses yelled, and she shrank back. _But no. That would be impossible. Surely he has worked for the bank for some time. Long before the Auditors had attempted to take human form._

"My apologies for the delay, Lady LeJean. We were required to bring the medium scales from the vaults." He paused, taking in the sight on Spittle's desk. "Ah, that is truly a thing to behold." His eyes brightened, and Myria began to reconsider her earlier impression. "And such near perfection of form as well. It is rare that we see gold in such an unadulterated form, my lady. You do us an honor by brining it to this, its new home."

Setting the scales upon the counter, Bent carefully and meticulously zeroed the scales. Myria was, frankly, impressed by his exactitude. Placing the gold carefully on one tray, he loaded weights to the other until it appeared roughly balance.

Then he began his work in earnest, working his way down from larger weights to batches of smaller ones until he again reached a final result.

Then, motioning the other two back and holding his breath, he worked down to an even smaller set of weights, mere splinters, until, holding his breath and brandishing a set of fine tweezers and a magnifying glass, he placed what would appear to the unaided eye as a mere fleck of metal upon the tray.

Myria felt that, in some way, _here_ was a kindred spirit. She felt the briefest stirrings of… something. It was similar to her reaction to the watch captain, but less blinding.

_He is like me. Perhaps he is an Auditor after all?_

Turning to the Senior Clerk, who had the look of an apprentice who has just watched a masterwork created, he smiled. "The total weight is 2.172 pounds."

Myria frowned. Surely she had not in such error previously. "My apologies, Mister Bent, but surely the weight is 2.194 pounds."

Bent's eye twitched slightly, and she heard a small gasp from Spittle. Then Bent smiled again. "Well observed, my lady, but I believe you are assuming that the ingot is absolutely pure. We, unfortunately, must presume otherwise. While it is clearly very pure, the amount of the deposit will be based on a nominal purity of 99%."

Myria drew herself straighter. This could not be right. "I do not find that reasonable at all. I can assure you the purity is 99.9995%."

In a tone that adults usually reserve for children, Bent asked, "My lady, that would be impossible to prove. In what manner can you assure me that this is the case?"

_Indeed, how would I?_ She chewed her lip slightly, and finally accepted defeat. "I cannot prove this to be so. I have only my statement that it is true."

Bent regarded her sadly. "If only the word of men were of such value. Only gold, my lady, can be trusted. All else is fleeting and subject to the whims of base motive, much like our money has been contaminated with base metals." He went on like this at some length, which Myria and apparently Spittle felt was somewhat excessive.

When he finally wound down, Spittle hazarded, "Considering the size of her deposit, Mister Bent, perhaps Lady LeJean would like to see it safely to its new home?"

There was that twitch of the eye again, followed by a speedy recovery. "Of course." Taking a cloth bag from Spittle, he placed the gold in it, closed it, and tied a wired tag around the closed opening.

* * *

It was a short walk down the hallway and a set of stairs to the gold vault, located in the basement of the bank. Myria was, unsurprisingly, not allowed inside the vault but was able to watch through the bars as Mr. Bent placed the gold with its brethren.

"As you can see, my lady, your deposit will not lack for companionship. Here is the largest single concentration of gold in the entire city, happily residing in peace and harmony and, by doing so, providing the basis for a strong and stable economy."

Something nagged at Myria. Something significant. _There is something wrong here._ Looking at Bent, she determined that he seemed generally at ease. _It is not he that is the… wrongness._ Her gaze turned back to the vault itself.

Narrowing her eyes, she looked at the pile of gold there in the vault, considered the space occupied and the shape of the sacks and boxes.

"Mister Bent, how much gold would you say is there?"

The tic again. "Over 10 tons, my lady. As I said…"

But she was not listening as he continued on._ No… that does not seem correct._ She tilted her head, trying to wrap her mind around the idea that was forming. _Surely that assumes that the content of the mass of metal in the vault is consistent throughout, but just as Mister Bent would not accept my statement without proof, I find that I can not accept this at its face value either._

Bent had wound down again, and was looking at Myria with something approaching concern, possibly from some distance away. The way her eyes covered the gold made him slightly uneasy. It was as if… it were being weighed.

"Perhaps, my lady, we should complete your business here so you can be on your way?

For a few seconds, Myria struggled with herself. She felt the urge, the very strong urge, to speak her thoughts. To tell Mister Bent that, in point of fact, the amount of gold in the vault could be no more than several hundred pounds based on the surface evidence.

Two things stopped her. One was the fact that the vault, with its bars and thick walls, reminded her jarringly of Pseudopolis Yard and its cells. Somehow the idea of being here, with Mister Bent, and making that statement felt… hazardous.

The second was that she was finally, she believed, getting a feel for when it was a Bad Idea to spout off the first thing that came into her head. Mister Bent reminded her, in some very concerning ways, of the Auditor-gone-mad-human Mr. White.

* * *

[1] We hope you will forgive him for not recognizing Cheery's gender as well. Like many in his field, if it couldn't be calculated on an abacus he was really quite lost.

[2] At any moment, he expected a deranged man and woman to burst into the bank screaming: "any of you clerks move, and I'll execute every mother loving last one of you!" Accompanied by a raucous guitar riff and later degenerating into a discussion of what they call a ground beef sandwich in Quirm.

[3] The Thieves Guild was rather unforgiving of unlicensed practitioners, often recovering the improperly ill-gotten gains with extreme prejudice and far more pain than the Watch would ever consider.


	15. A Proposal Most Indecent

**15. A Proposal Most Indecent**

Myria was relieved when Mister Bent suggested they leave the vault and return to the lobby to complete the remainder of her business. Unfortunately, yet again, life proved to be less simple than she wished. In this example, due to being intercepted on the way by a junior clerk.

A very clearly nervous junior clerk, who spent several moments trying to clear his throat and then delivered half his message in a falsetto. *cough* "Chief Cashier Bent," *cough* "I am to tell you that" *squeak* "Mr. Lavish would be pleased to make Lady LeJean's acquaintance."

For Myria, this seemed like nothing more than yet another bank employee wishing to assist in what, to her, seemed like a rather simple transaction. It was hard to understand how having so many people attempting to be very… helpful… could instead begin to approach something closer to _irritating_. However, watching Mr. Bent's face, she determined that this was different. It seemed as if his smile, which had been clearly legitimate when discussing the gold only minutes before, was now painted onto his face and looking for a corner to hide in[1].

"Pleased to make her acquaintance." A slight look of distaste passed over his features before the smile covered it again. "Indeed. How descriptive." He sighed. "Lady LeJean, I don't suppose you have pressing business that would prevent you from meeting the Chairman of our fine establishment?" He looked almost hopeful.

"I do not believe so, Mr. Bent. It would quite depend on how long the meeting was to last."

"That, I have found, can be quite variable, depending on the circumstances." He sighed again. "In that case, please do accompany me."

Ascending two more floors, they paused before a set of dark and elaborately carved wooden doors. Mr. Bent knocked quietly before opening one and motioning Myria to precede him.

Behind a very large and imposing desk sat what Myria would have described as a large man in every sense of the word. Not only his physical form was large, but, she quickly learned, his personality was as well.[2]

"Ah! My Lady LeJean, such a pleasure to welcome a new and valued client to our esteemed bank!" He boomed as he rose and circumnavigated the desk like a gas giant rounding a star.

"I thank you Mr. Lavish, b-

"Please, call me Joshua. All of my friends do." Reaching her, he held out his hand, and she hesitantly offered hers. Bowing over with a flourish and kissing the back of her hand should not have impacted her, but she found it disconcerting and slightly warming. Which complicated her ability to process his words. _Friend? We have just met. How could I be considered his friend?_ "Very… well… Joshua. As I was preparing to state, a personal welcome was not required. I am pleased to do business with your bank.

"Oh it's not my bank, of course. It's _your_ bank! And of course, the shareholders and the board have some small say!" He laughed.

It was an infectious laugh, she found. Something about him made him imminently… likeable. _What is it about this human?_

"I see."

"Would you care to join me for a drink, Lady LeJean, unless Lord LeJean would object?"

"Lord LeJean?" Her brows furrowed. "Oh, I see. No Mist-, my apologies, _Joshua_, there is no Lord LeJean. I am not espoused."

Mr. Bent suddenly looked even more pained, and the tic under his left eye began a small symphony as he attempted to interject. "Mister Chairman, surely-"

Joshua fixed him with a suddenly hard look. "Ah, Mr. Bent, you are still here. Please don't let me keep you, I'll be happy to see Lady LeJean downstairs after our little friendly chat."

Mr. Bent's shoulders slumped. "Yes, Mr. Chairman," he managed and turned toward the door. Myria, for her part, was sure she heard him mumble "Yes I am sure you will, but will _she_?" as his hunched form disappeared and the doors closed behind him. She turned back to Mr. Lavish to find him smiling broadly at her and offering her a private tour of his suite.

* * *

It was scarcely ten minutes before Myria, exuding an air of injured and righteous ire, escorted _herself_ to Mr. Bent's office. She had been required to ask directions of yet another junior clerk, and the expression on her face had him fleeing as soon as he answered her question.

"Lady LeJean!" He took stock of her flushed face and flaring nostrils. "Oh dear. I am _terribly_ sorry."

"That… human!" She strained to gain a purchase on her emotions. "That person! _Man_! Made suggestions to me that I do not feel were at _all_ appropriate."

Mr. Bent looked even more contrite now that his fears were confirmed. "I _am_ terribly sorry, my lady. Mr. Lavish has certain, character flaws, that we are required by the realities of our position to overlook. I apologize if he was less than gentlemanly.

Myria's hands twitched of their own accord. "_Gentlemanly_? Mr. Bent, when _Mister_ Lavish offered to provide a tour of his suite, I assumed that he meant to show his private work areas, which did in fact intrigue me." She found her stomach beginning to roil. "I did not imagine that I would end up in his living chambers!"

Bent cringed. "My lady, I must again apologize. Mr. Lavish would never make advances unless he believed they were welcome." He made a sour face. "And unfortunately I have discovered that in many cases they are quite welcome." He lowered his voice. "It is not something I find tasteful."

There was a quiet moment, during which Myria found them sharing a silent shudder, which seemed to make her feel better. Could it be that she had misunderstood Mr. Lavish's offer? "Then, perhaps I misunderstood his intentions throughout. I am afraid I am not used to people I do not know well expressing such focused attention upon me." She took a deep breath. "He even placed his hand upon my person without permission!"

Bent looked horrified, and Myria considered that perhaps a distinction was in order. She understood, by this time, that some human bits were more private and inviolate than others.

"To be specific, it was my shoulder," she shuddered at the memory nonetheless, "and he removed his hand when I demanded he do so."

A wave of relief had washed over Bent's face as she explained, though whether it was because her anger was ebbing or because Lavish had not shown her his "special cabinet", even he could not have said. "I will speak with the chairman as soon as possible, my lady, and express again your displeasure. Again, I can not apologize enough."

Myria felt her anger subsiding further, giving way to a more analytical consideration. Why did discussing it seem to take some of the horror from it? "I do not believe that is required. Considering now, he apologized many times but I was too angry to accept them." She thought for a moment. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass along my acceptance. I feel it is needful, but I do not wish to meet Mr. Lavish again."

"Of course, of _course_ my lady. And again, I must apologize as well on behalf of the bank."

"Apology accepted, Mr. Bent. Now, I do wish to leave." In fact, she felt the strong urge to go and bathe, as irrational as it seemed. She felt slightly _soiled_. The way that human had looked at her, after she had followed him into what had turned out to be a private sitting room, made her feel as if she were a piece of… of _chocolate_ that he desired to consume. Yes. That was it. It was… she believed Jessica would call it an 'oogy' feeling. She did not wish to repeat it at all.

Bent escorted her quickly back to the main lobby, where she was surprised and elated to see that Cheery had not, as she expected, returned to the watch house, but was instead still sitting on the leather couch near the entrance. The expression on Cheery's face could have powdered solid rock, but the scowl reduced somewhat when she saw Myria exit the side door with Bent.

* * *

It took only a few minutes more to obtain the desired funds in coin while Cheery waited, and she finally found herself outside the bank with Cheery, blinking in the late afternoon sun and both assaulted and soothed by the sounds of the street.

Cheery stamped her feet beside her, working some feeling back into her legs. "Well it took you long enough! What did they need, your entire life story?"

Myria flinched. That would have been rather short or immensely long, depending on how she told it. "I had a rather troubling time. First there was yet more paperwork, and then Mr. Bent escorted me so that I could observe the gold vault."

Cheery's jaw dropped at that, and her eyes shone. "What was that like? Did you… did you get to touch it?"

_Gold_, Myria decided, _was like chocolate for dwarves. Oh dear._ "No I am afraid not. And I was glad to be out of the place. So many iron bars." She shivered at the memory.

"Ah…. yes I could see that."

"And then I met the chairman of the bank, Mr. Lavish, and he made… inappropriate advances."

"Oh dear. You met the infamous Joshua Lavish? I wish I'd known that might happen, I could have warned you."

Myria frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well he's got quite the reputation as a lady's man."

"A… lady's man?" She parsed this sentence, and decided that it did not seem to fit at all. _It would be more appropriate to say that many other human females were that man's ladies._

"Well, he's not exactly _my_ type, of course, but they say he can be very charming. Personally, I think it's the wealth. All that money, it's like one of those moan things."

Myria thought for a second. "Pheromones?"

"Right, them. So the big peacock hit on you?"

Myria's eyes widened. "No! He did not strike me!"

"No no, that's just another word for made advances, propositioned you."

Myria analyzed that one and found it fit the situation well. "Yes, I fear that I gave him incorrect impressions of my availability. He placed his hand on my person and asked if I wished to do… _intimate_ things." Though it may have been through my error, bec-"

"None of that!" Cheery reached up and grabbed Myria's upper arm for emphasis. "A lady's mind is her own, and so is her body, dwarf or human." She huffed. "You were too nice, seems to me. Why if it'd been _me_, he would have been trying to find his jewels in his throat. These boots aren't just for show, you know." She kicked a loose cobblestone for emphasis, sending it flying across the street and nearly concussing a passerby.

Myria looked confused. _What would striking someone with your boot have to do with precious ston- oohhhhhh… it is a play on words._

"Sorry, I guess a lady like yourself wouldn't know about things like that."

Myria nodded. "I believe I understand your meaning, and it may be that I need to learn such skills."

"That's a definite possibility there. Just remember." Cheery grinned, but there was some steel in it. "_No_ means _no_, especially if its backed up by a battle-axe at groin level."

* * *

[1] Not that she would have used quite that colorful of imagery, but it's close to the impression she got.

[2] Many women, upon seeing him for the first time, had politely termed him "robust". Upon getting to know him better, they continued to use the descriptor for entirely different reasons.


	16. Weevils, Weasels, and Journalists

**16. Weevils, Weasels, Journalists, and Other Pests**

"I have got to get out of this room. I'm going to go mad in here!" Jonathon refrained from making any sudden hand or head gestures to emphasize his point. He'd learned that lesson after the third, or perhaps fourth, painful result.

"Well you can't, so stop fretting and eat something." Jessica had brought him what her mother had called "a bracing broth" along with some willowbark tea that he was to finish, per Rosemarie's orders. Instead, Jessica thought he was going to vibrate off the bed.

"I can't help it! It's been hours since she left with the watch, and she _still_ isn't back." He fixed her with the best glare that an invalid could muster, which wasn't all that intimidating frankly. "I can't believe you let her go without at least waking me up and telling me."

"Hah, right. It's not like I had a _choice_. You met the commander of the Watch. Did he strike you as the type to take no for an answer?" She shook her head.

Jonathon's frustration faded a little, and he managed a wry grin. "Wow. He even intimidated you? Somebody write this down, we may need it later when you start dating."

Jessica fixed him with a mock glare of her own. "Watch it cousin, or I'll sit on your chest." She swatted his arm playfully, and he smiled a little more genuinely.

"Still, w-"

"Jessicaaa!" Her mother's voice wafted from downstairs. "Come down for a second!"

"Maybe that's news!" Jessica threw over her shoulder as she hustled out. "Be right back."

* * *

It was only a few minutes before Jessica wandered back up the stairs, but they seemed like an hour to the frustrated Jonathon. When she got there, she stood with a thoughtful look on her face, chewing her lip.

"Well?! What was it?"

Jessica started a bit. "Oh, sorry, it was a little odd. There was a messenger. You know the ones that you can hire on the street to run little errands for you and such?"

"Yes yes. What about it? Was it about Myria?"

"Yeah, but it was the odd part. He claimed that he had delivered a message to Bullworth's for her about an hour ago, and showed us a scribble he said was their stamp and signature confirming receipt, and wanted the rest of the payment."

"So it wasn't a message from Myria at all? Wait, Bullworth's… isn't that the place where you went clothes shopping with her?"

Jessica gritted her teeth, and he made a note to ask her for more details about that little adventure later[1]. "Don't remind me. I _still_ want to pay that weasel back for his attitude." She frowned. "But yeah. That must be what it's about. She paid for, like two or three more dresses and they were going to deliver them to that house that she had rented." She smacked her forehead. "Of course, they never got delivered right? And she needs clothes so she's having them delivered here."

Jonathon exhaled, feeling some of his worry going with it. "Well that's good. Myria wouldn't be paying for a messenger unless she had some money and was able to spend it. And if she was arrested, she wouldn't be sending for dresses, right? She'd have bigger problems." He winced a little as he tried to shift positions.

"Yeah, and I asked the messenger what she was doing when she hired him. He gave me a funny look, and then suggested another pence might help his memory." Jessica picked up Jonathon's tea and pushed it at him, refusing to continue until he took a long drink of it. "He said she was heading up Broadway just off the Brass Bridge, walking with some dwarf watchman. And according to him she seemed fine, the two were chatting like they were old friends. So she's not sitting in jail, that's for sure, but she's wandering around with a watchman. It doesn't sound to me like she's completely free to go and do what she wants either."

Jonathon relaxed even further. "Still, it eases my mind, knowing she's not been arrested at least." He looked at Jessica carefully. "You know why I worry about her. There's no telling what she could get into on her own."

"I know I know."

Jonathon scratched at his side and winced. "I keep getting blasted itches I can't reach. I'll be glad when I can get them off."

"Well, Dr. Lawn said it will be a couple more days, and _you're_ the one decided to play hero. Only yourself to blame _this_ time."

"Hah. Ouch."

Jessica leaned over and in a rare display of actual affection, kissed her cousin on the forehead. "Back later. Read your silly boy books and try to relax."

Jonathon narrowed his eyes at her. "Gee, thanks. Get your behind downstairs. I heard your ma complaining about weevils in the flour earlier.

"Right. She wasn't talking about the flour, and she wasn't talking about the kind of weevils with six legs." She motioned toward the front of the bakery downstairs, where a varying number of watchmen could still from time to time be seen meandering about.

"Ah. I see."

* * *

It was about an hour later, well after tea time, that Jessica saw Susan Sto Helit walk through the open bakery door. Jessica flashed her mother a smile, getting a nod in return, and hurried over and threw her arms around Susan's neck. "You're back!"

Susan, startled beyond imagining, actually bushed a little as she tried to extract herself from the enthusiastic teen. "Oh good grief, I was here just yesterday."

Jessica stepped back but her smile didn't dim. "Well yeah, but it's still great to see you."

Susan found her smile infectious. "It's good to see you too Jessica." She appraised her. "You know, you look better by the day."

"Thanks to you!"

"True, but don't gush."

Jessica looked past Susan's shoulder through the open door and saw a couple of watchmen talking quietly. "Hey, those guys didn't give you any trouble did they?"

Susan looked back, and smiled grimly. "Hmph. No, I doubt they even realize I'm here now." She seemed to catch herself, startled at the admission, and then went on. "Regardless, I need to talk to Myria."

Jessica's smile faltered. "Um…."

Susan closed her eyes. "Don't tell me. She isn't here, yet again. What has she done now?"

Jessica filled her in quickly and, with a few pointed questions, fully as well.

"Well, it could definitely be worse."

Jessica peered at her face carefully. "So, you trust Commander Vimes?"

"Vimes? Oh he's trustworthy in a way, I suppose. That is to say, I doubt he'd lie to you. But if what I hear of his is true, his loyalties are to the Patrician and his own silly ideas about justice. I tend to prefer not to deal with the Watch and its commander if at all possible."

"Oh. That doesn't sound good." Jessica motioned to a table in the corner, and Susan gratefully walked over to it and seated herself. She was pleasantly surprised when Rosemarie appeared quickly with a beautifully baked cake and some tea before disappearing into the back again.

Susan took a small bite, and followed it with a sip of tea before continuing. "It can work in our favor, or not. It depends on whether the His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, the Duke of Ankh decides which is the 'right' side to be on." She gave a sour look, then brightened. "I learned that he doesn't like Rust at all, and that helps our cause."

"Is that what you've been doing? Finding out stuff?"

"Yes. That is exactly what I've been doing. I suppose it was time I put my title to more use than just something I add to my name when I feel like it. "

"What did you find out?" Jessica knew that Susan was nobility, of some sort, and decided she would ask about that if things settled enough to do it.

"Many things," was the enigmatic response.

Jessica raised an eyebrow and sarcastically followed with "any of them _helpful_ things?"

"Perhaps. For one thing, because both Rust and Myria (at least nominally) are nobility, there are special rules that can apply to them and not to the unwashed masses." She caught herself. "Sorry Jessica, my sense of humor can be-."

Jessica laughed, "Yeah whatever. Helpful things, like…"

Susan sighed. "For one thing, in a dispute over ownership of property, either one can request a hearing before a tribunal of peers instead of submitting to the general law of the city. I'm not sure of the details yet, however."

Jessica looked confused, and Susan took the opportunity for another bite of cake and sip of tea. It really was quite good. "But… I thought the Patrician had final say in everything? Isn't he like a tyrant or something?"

Susan smiled and looked away for a moment, then collected herself. "Well yes… technically he does have final say. But strange as it may sound, part of the reason Vetinari has ruled so long is because, as far as I can tell, he almost never actually orders people around. He's remained dictator by _not_ dictating, if that makes sense."

"Nope, none at all." Jessica laughed and played with the sugar spoon, making swirls in the nearby bowl as she listened. This was like an entirely new world for her.

"Let me try to explain then. Not that I ordinarily take much interest in the city-wide affairs, but from what I have been able to determine, whenever something big is going on, things just seem to fall out the way Vetinari seems to want." She shook her head in admiration. _And I suspect I could learn a thing or two from him, though it pains me to admit it._

"Alright."

"So one of two things is happening. Either he is very perceptive and well-informed, and sees which way things are going, and just gets in front of whichever way things are going, or he is the most clever man I have ever seen and manipulates practically all the influential people," _except me,_ "in the city to do exactly what he wants them to do." She sat back and let Jessica digest that a little.

"That's mad."

"Perhaps. Did you follow that little spat over Leshp two years ago?[2]

"Leshp? Wasn't that the stinking island?"

"Sinking island… though from what I remember, that may have been true too."

"Well, I remember there was going to be a war. Jonathon got the crazy idea of joining the regiments, and I made fun of him until he admitted it was stupid. Well, that and ma and da threatened to disown him if he did. Other than that I didn't pay much attention, since I was just a kid[3]."

"Hmmm. What _do_ they teach children these days? Well regardless the whole affair was a mess. First there was an actual war declared against Klatch, and before you know it just fizzled out. And somewhere in between, Vetinari actually handed over command of the entire city to _Rust_ of all people." Susan stared off into the distance, tea held halfway to her mouth. "Vetinari never lifted a _finger_ as far as anyone can tell. Not to prevent the war, nor to start the war, and certainly not to stop the war other than have a treaty ready when the moment was right." She smiled. "But _somehow_, everything fit together like clockwork in the end, with him looking like a genius." She shook her head in admiration. "I don't know how he does it. It's like magic."

"Ok, I understand the history lesson." Susan cocked an eyebrow at her. "But I still don't understand that helps _us_?"

"The point, my young friend, is that this situation is big. It is big enough that it impacts the entire city. And that means that Vetinari _is_ going to be involved, somehow."

Jessica stopped playing with the sugar and stared at Susan. "Are you saying… that the _Patrician…_ of the entire city… might help Myria?

"Not at all. What I am saying is that if he does not want her to see her gold returned, then there is no hope at all of that occurring and we would as well do nothing. And if we assume that he does, and rely on him to directly do anything about it, Myria also loses. What we must do is assume Vetinari wants the gold out of Rust's hands, and work toward that end."

Jessica absorbed this, eyes widening. "Wow, that's… that's _twisty_."

Susan pursed her lips. "_That_, my friend, is Vetinari." Another sip of tea. "So, we _assume_ Vetinari doesn't want Rust to have it, and that he won't intervene directly. So, we need to find a way that allows him to work but does not require him to make the decision himself. And lo, here we have the tribunal. Now all we have to do is request it, and see how things lead from there."

Jessica was about to describe just how bonkers that sounded, when they were distracted by a noise outside the bakery.

* * *

"No, you can _not_ go in." Corporal Stroud stood, hands on hips, mimicking the same stance and attitude he had used when first confronted with Susan, Jonathon, and Myria a few days ago. And probably with the same end result.

"Are you saying, constable, that _The Times_ is not allowed to buy fresh baked goods?" Sacharissa Cripslock had a completely innocent look on her face, belied completely by the notebook held in her left hand and the pen poised in her right. Stroud found his gaze drawn by it and reacted as if it were a fanged serpent.

"Miss Cripslock," he managed, dragging his eyes away, "_The Times_ is a _newspaper_. It doesn't buy baked goods. It doesn't eat."

Sacharissa smirked. "Well, _I do_, and I'm hungry." She waved her pencil at the bakery. "And I want some bread. The fact that I happen to be a reporter is beside the point."

Stroud glared at her, then latched onto the next argument. "And your reason for bringing along your _photographer_ who, I point out, not only carrying a camera with the lens thing off, also happens to be a _vampire._

"I am shocked constable, that you would make issue of Otto's species."

"Good grief, the point is, he doesn't eat bread… and stop writing things down!" Stroud started when Otto spoke up, his tone amused. "Vell, I _might_ like to take some pictures of ze baking. It could be a _human_ interest story." Otto smiled, and the sight of two slightly-too-pointed canines disturbed Stroud further.

He shook himself trying to keep the conversation on track. He could handle this, right? No need to get the Sergeant involved. "Not buying it." Seeing the reporter about to write something _else_ down, he raised his hand. "_Fine_. I can't stop you," he pointed at Sacharissa, "from buying some bread. But the _photographer_ stays outside. And I'm coming in with you." He turned, motioning her to follow.

"So you are guarding the bakery, or me? From what or who?"

Stroud froze and she watched his back tense before whirling back to her. "You just said you weren't after a story!"

"I said no such thing, constable. I said I was hungry and wanted to buy some bread. I can still interview you, no law against that."

Stroud made a face. "I have nothing to say."

Sacharissa Cripslock began writing furiously, muttering just loud enough for Stroud to hear. "Hmmm… Watch Dedicates Valuable Manpower to Guard Bakery against Unknown Threat. Refuses Comment." She could see, out of the corner of her eye, Stroud's face redden, then turn white as she spoke.

"You're not going to trick me, miss," Stroud managed in a strangled voice. "My lips are sealed."

"Good, that way you won't interrupt. Otto, why don't you get some shots of typical Ankh-Morpork street scenes while I grab a bite to eat. Make sure you get a few shots of some of the more prominent businesses please.

"Hahah. Right on it." With a grin, the vampire wandered down the street to get the best angle of the bakery entrance… which photo would incidentally also show at least one of the watchmen hovering on a nearby rooftop. As she and Stroud walked to the bakery entrance, she composed a second headline in her head, _Watchman Suffers Nervous Breakdown at Local Bakery, Loses Consciousness, Revived by Bucket of Ice-Cold Water. Yes that would do nicely._

* * *

[1] For more about Myria and Jessica's pleasant and unpleasant adventures in shopping, hairstyling, and overall pampering which also unfortunately included a rather smelling stray dog and some even more objectionable nobby types, see _From Dust to Flesh_ by this author.

[2] See the master Sir Terry Pratchett's book Jingo for the story of Leshp and the resulting hilarity.

[3] Note to parents. Sixteen is practically an adult. Fourteen is just a kid. In between is a sort of parental purgatory. (Ah who are we kidding, just hide under the bed when they turn 12 up until they finish college.)


	17. Interview Without a Vampire

**[A/N: Thank you all who have stuck with me thus far. I hope you are still enjoying the story and not just slogging through. ;-) Special thanks to my faithful reviewers Fledge, SSC, Bookworm Gal, and others. And sorry about the gap before this chapter. I was fleshing out much of the storyline behind the scenes! Cheers!]**

**17. Interview Without a Vampire**

Jessica was in the midst of the most uncanny thing that had ever happened to her, barring perhaps being tormented by otherworldly creatures bent on driving her to suicide.

One moment she was sitting with Miss Susan, discussing strategy regarding Myria's gold. She heard two people enter the bakery and turned to see who it was, and turned back to find Susan… simply not there.

_Partially finished tea? Check._

_Mostly eaten cake? Check._

_Chair? Check._

_Susan in chair? Ummm. No._

She actually opened her mouth to remark about this situation and suddenly, very firmly, received the impression… no the _instruction_, not to do so. She found the command quite irresistible.

_Fine_. She turned her attention then to the two newcomers, one of whom she had recognized immediately as Stroud, the old sourpuss.

_I suppose duty calls. Looks like Miss Susan is going to be no help at all._ Rising to meet them, she decided that, having had her fill of talking to constable Stroud long since, she would address the women who, at least, did not appear to be yet _another_ constable.

"How may I help you, miss? It's a bit late for tea, but we have some items that are not long out of the oven if you're interested."

The woman, to her surprise, gave the constable a wink and then turned a broad smile on Jessica. "Why _thank_ you! Actually the reason I am here is because I have heard that this bakery has an _amazing_ secret-"

The constable reacted quickly, actually grabbing the woman by the arm and attempting to turn her right back around and send her out the door while interrupting her with, "That's enough, let's go."

Whereupon the woman quickly added "-ingredientinyourbread!" That stopped Stroud, who stared at her as she finished at a more reasonable pace, "_And_ I just had to try it."

The woman gave the clear impression that, had there been a halo about, she would have been vigorously polishing it.

Jessica glanced back and forth between the two of them. "What? What's going on here, Constable Stroud?" at the same time as Stroud added "What are you playing at, Miss Cripslock?"

The woman, apparently Miss Cripslock, gave what was the epitome of innocent smiles. "I just wanted to sample some of your baking."

_Waitaminute, that name is familiar._ "Sayyyy…. you're that reporter from the Times, aren't you?"

Miss Cripslock radiated purity of intent like a one-person supernova. "Pure coincidence."

Stroud, for his part, wasn't buying it at all, and removing his hand from Cripslock's arm instead inserted himself between the two of them. "Ms. Knäcke, this is clearly some kind of ploy."

Grudgingly, Jessica had to agree. "Yeah… but still, a customer is a customer. Have a seat Miss Cripslock. Can I offer you some tea?"

Stroud rubbed his face and counted to three, before trying one more time. "This isn't a good idea miss, this woman is-"

"Look," Jessica interrupted him, not unkindly. "I understand you are trying to protect us, but seriously it's not like she's gonna stab us with her pencil."

"No. _Worse_!" He pointed a slightly quivering finger at the notebook and pen that Sacharissa still carried. "She's going to write down what you _say_! Every. Word. And then," he stopped pointing and made complex gestures with his hands, "they'll shuffle them around into something you didn't say, but it's close enough that you can't say they _lied_. It's like those "where's the ball" scams they play with the cups out at the Maul. Except that for this, the commander says we can't _arrest_ anyone." He managed to look indignant.

_Wow, she really gets under his skin._ Jessica looked Stroud up and down. "Wow. That's gotta make you crazy, not being able to arrest someone."

"You think you're being funny, but you're not," Stroud huffed.

"No, I'm a teenager. I don't think I'm being funny, I think I've had enough of being told what to do. Now go. Guard."

As soon as a certain fuming constable was out the door muttering to himself, Jessica seated the reporter, as far from where Susan had been as possible, and turned to find her mother already on the way with a selection of cakes.

"Here you go." Rosemarie proffered the laden tray. "Please try a couple. This one, we're very proud of, she stated [display several types of bread with oils and butters]

Sampling a few, Sacharissa was actually impressed. "Mmm…. this _is_ lovely." She picked up her pen and began scribbling in her notebook. "I can see why you need guards now, it's to keep from being overrun with customers."

Rosemarie gave her a careful look. Jessica was not so subtle and actually snorted. "You're funny Miss Cripslock."

Sacharissa smiled. "Me? I've been told I'm not amusing at all. Repeatedly and, most recently, by several servants of Lord Rust, who refused to speak with me himself."

Jessica found her gaze drawn to the notepad. "Are you going to write down what I say?" She pointed at the offending item.

"Not if you tell me not to."

"_Really_…" The tone was more of disbelief than a question. Rosemarie just shook her head and returned to the back of the bakery to get out of the line of fire.

"Really. Oh it may cause me to go mad and I may need years of therapy, but if you tell me something off the record, off the record it stays. I can only hope you won't make me suffer for too long before having mercy on me.

Jessica laughed. "Oh you're good Miss Cripslock."

"Please, call me Sacharissa."

"Oh dear, are you sure?"

"We all have our burdens to bear."

_Yes and mine is Safflower._ "Yeppers."

* * *

The next thirty minutes involved the kind of mental gymnastics that one might observe in a game of Thud between Lord Vetinari and Hex, the Wizard's computing machine. In one corner, a teenager with the kind of stubborn mental agility that comes from years of never actually disobeying her parents while at the same time doing exactly what they wanted her not to do. In the other corner, a young lady who had become the pre-eminent news sleuth in Ankh Morpork, able to ferret out what people did not want to say while making them happy they did so[1].

Each found, to their chagrin, that their primary weapons were useless in this fight. Jessica was not lulled into a false sense of complacency simply because Sacharissa was a girl. And Sacharissa responded to Jessica's most barbed sarcasm with calm and reasonable responses. It was a bit infuriating really.

Nevertheless, Jessica would likely have found herself outmatched if not for the periodic impression, and a very _pushy_ impression it was, regarding when she should and should not answer a question. She had a very strong suspicion exactly where those impressions were coming from, and found herself glaring at the empty chair a few tables over from time to time.

The end result was Jessica feeling wrung out and in need of a drink as she watched a somewhat unsatisfied Sacharissa leaving through the open door. Sacharissa had said it was a pleasure, and Jessica snorted again.

"Well, that was interesting. Could I trouble you for some more tea? Mine appears to have gone cold," came Susan's voice from two tables over. Jessica turned to find her, seated primly where she had been before, looking quite innocent.

"How did you do that?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Susan gestured at her cup. "My tea?"

Jessica's fingers flexed and closed against the tabletop. It was a good thing she didn't' have long nails, as she would have probably scratched the finish. She took a deep breath, stood up, and went to the back. A minute later she was back with hot water and a tea ball, which she placed carefully in from of Susan before sitting down opposite her and turning on "the stare".

Susan, for her part, was unmoved. She carefully set the tea to steep and arranged the remains of her cake. Finally Jessica couldn't take it any more.

"You know I'm going to keep asking until you answer me."

A muscle along Susan's jawline flexed, and she fixed Jessica with a look that made her sit back. There was something… uncanny about it. It made her think of lightning and shadows. "Are you sure?" Susan asked.

_Playing with fire_, that tone said. _Messing about with things you don't understand._ Jessica quailed a bit, then realized what that tone was really saying…

Want to know what happens when otherworldly power used to being obeyed meets female teenage rebellion against authority?

Jessica narrowed her eyes. "Am I _sure_? Miss Susan, I like you. You're… kinda bursar but in a dragony kinda way. But that is the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"Bursar… in a dragony…"

"That means crazy, but in a very cool way."

It wasn't Susan had never been left speechless. There were numerous times in her adult life that she had been shocked beyond words. But all of them, without exception, had involved someone who was more than simply human. Her grandfather and Lobsang were the usual suspects.

To be 'good morninged[2]' by the teenage daughter of a baker was a new and novel experience for her.

"I… see."

Susan had not had an easy life. Losing both parents at an early age didn't help. Then discovering her grandfather[3] is going to outlive her by, say, the age of the universe and will likely be the last face she sees when her own life draws to a close. Then worse yet, discovering she had inherited certain abilities and at times was called upon to… fill in. All this had conspired to give her a personality that was very much of two minds.

On the one hand, there was the maniacal desire to be _normal_. To have a normal life and do normal things. And that part of her resented very single intrusion of her grandfather's business into her own attempts to just live a normal life.

On the other hand, she found the mass of humanity to be petty, often boring, and frankly a bit sad.

The result was that she spent much of her life subconsciously isolating herself from anything approaching family or peers. Oh she had professional relationships with her students' parents, and an uncomfortable truce had been declared with her superiors at her job. And she had a distant and congenial relationship with the council of burghers in Sto Helit.[4]

The result was that her only friends and acquaintances tended to be creatures like herself. Imp who had been possessed by some twisted fate, Lobsang who was the personification of time and in many ways like _her_, and now Myria…

The fact was, Jessica was probably the first 'merely human' person over the age of ten that Susan had really interacted with on a personal level since her own school days. She was finding the experience not what she expected.

Jessica, to her credit, gave Susan a few moments before she prodded again. "So?"

Susan shook her head. "It's complicated."

Jessica snorted and threw up her hands. "You sound just like Myria."

"_Excuse_ me?"

"She told me the same thing when I caught her talking to a dog named Gaspode. Who, incidentally, spilled it that she's not human." Jessica carefully looked Susan up and down. "Are you one of them to? Not that I care, cause I like Myria. Just curious. I can't picture you ever being one of them."

Susan drew up and crossed her arms, nostrils flaring. "Most definitely _not_. And did your mother never teach you it's bad manners to pry?"

"Nah, ma never had a problem with being nosy." There was a sound somewhere from the area of the kitchens, followed by a coughing fit, as if to illustrate that fact.

One corner of Susan's mouth turned up. "Perhaps you should take a job with the Times then."

"Ouch."

"Yes well."

Jessica huffed. "Seriously, you're not going to tell me how it is that when Cripslock walked in you were all _poof. _And as soon as she left you're like _wabbo_?"

"That is not a word. I am sure that _wabbo_ is not a word."

"You're trying to change the subject."

"Yes, and you're not taking the hint." There was another long silence as they sized each other up. Susan decided that she would try a smidgeon of honesty. Perhaps it would actually work in Jessica's case. "Jessica," she continued in a softer tone, "I value my privacy, with extreme prejudice. I have some means of doing protecting that privacy, one of which you just observed. That is sufficient explanation for now." She toyed with her teacup and gave Jessica a very pointed look. "Now, shall we move on to the important matter at hand? That of how much The Times knows, how much they guess, what they are likely to print, and how it will impact Myria and your family?"

"Harrumph."

"That is not a word either."

"Yeah." Susan cocked an eyebrow at her, and Jessica got the distinct impression that a different type of vocabulary was being requested. She sighed. "Yes _ma'am_."

"That's much better. So, let us summarize. It's clear that The Times has reason to believe that a large quantity of gold is currently in Watch custody, and was nearly stolen from Rust's property. They don't know _whose_ gold it was for a fact, but realized there was some dispute based how insistent Rust's representative was that it was in fact Rust's. But of course, Rust and his lackeys are not giving any further details, which isn't surprising."

"Why isn't that surprising?"

Susan took a sip of her tea. "Ah, well Rust considers The Times to be an inconvenience at best, and an abomination against proper society at worst." _One of the few things Rust and I may agree on, _she added silently.

"Alright. And they also know about my kidnapping, cause they reported on it when it happened _and_ bugged my parents about it. I still think that's pretty lame. What makes them think the two are connected?"

"Probably just guesswork and timing. First there's the kidnapping and rumors that it's related to the robbery or attempted robbery at the house on Kings Street. And then weeks later, there are suddenly guards around your bakery again. I could see how it would look like a possible story to them. Especially, I am given to believe, that they have heard rumors that your original kidnapping was thwarted through the valiant actions of an unknown 'Good Omnian'.

Jessica leaned back in the chair. "So they don't really know anything?"

"Apparently not, and that's why I mislike them." Susan frowned. "They don't have to _know_ anything. They will print rumor as quickly as they will fact, and all they have to do is put "sources claim" or "it is alleged" and they pretend that's all jolly good. And the things they do to grammar and punctuation." Susan shuddered, almost upsetting her tea. "It's horrid. I must admit, much of my dislike may be prejudicial."

Jessica filed Susan's feelings about grammar away for later use. "So how will this work for us? Or against us?"

"I'm not sure yet, but it is something to consider. At least they don't know about Myria yet, which may allow us the leisure of deciding if and when that would work in our favor.

* * *

Sacharissa was frustrated enough when she left the bakery that she even missed a golden opportunity to dig at Constable Stroud a bit more, instead waving at him absently as she collected Otto.

A block or two away, Otto finally brought up the painful subject. "Vell, how did it go?"

"Bleh. That's how it went. I got practically nothing. She'd start to say something and then just freeze as if she were listening to a little voice, and them clam up on me."

"Zo ve are back at square vun then?"

"Pretty much. I know there's a story here. I can _feel_ it."

There was a sound that, to human ears, would have registered somewhere just outside of the range of hearing. It was the sound of dice clattering across a marble surface.

Followed immediately by a deliveryman, looking somewhat out of his element, approaching the two with a look of confusion. "Excuse me miss, do you know where the…" he consulted a piece of paper, "Body Street Bakery is?"

Otto tilted his head down slightly so that he was peering over his rectangular tinted glasses at Sacharissa, who raised an eyebrow at him before answering with pursed lips.

"Hmm… the Body Street Bakery. That does sound familiar. Let me think." As she pondered the imponderables of life, Otto was carefully ensuring that he managed to examine the parcel under the man's arm. Seeing a hand-signal from the photographer, she snapped her fingers and smiled broadly. "Of course! It is just down the street. I'm sure the Knäckes are eagerly awaiting your delivery."

The man scratched his head. "Knäckes miss? No this one says it's for a Lady LeJean."

"Oh, my mistake. Terribly sorry."

"No harm miss. Thank you for your help."

As the man strode away with renewed purpose, Sacharissa looked a question at Otto.

"Bullvorth's Exclusive Designes. I know of zis place. It iz qvite pricy."

"Otto, I have the sudden urge to do a wonderful and in-depth piece on high fashion and the nobility. And you know, it occurs to m that Bullworth's should be our first stop."

Otto smiled. The hunt was on.

* * *

[1] At the time. Then when they read the actual interview they typically went through shock, rage, threats of litigation, realization that she had not actually written anything they hadn't said, depression and at times an untimely meeting with Susan's grandfather.

[2] If you don't get the reference, you have neither read nor seen "The Hobbit", in which case I pity you.

[3] We did mention that her grandfather is Death. Tall guy. Flesh-deficient. Black cloak and scythe? Yeah that one. Long story. Read Terry Pratchett's "Mort" for more info.

[4] She considered at one point appointing an actual Regent. Then she reflected how, when translated into Klatchian by way of Agataean via Omnian, _Regent_ corresponds roughly to _Grand Vizier_, and determined she could do without the cackling and poisoned food bit.


	18. A Few Quiet Moments

**A Few Quiet Moments**

It was after dusk by the time Myria and Cheery reached Pseudopolis Yard. Myria was pleasantly surprised when Cheery did not escort her to the commander's office, but instead asked her to wait outside. It was only a few minutes before Myria heard her steel-shod heels stomping through the front door again.

Cheery smiled at her. "The Commander sends his regards."

"Please tell him I am very appreciative."

"Oh I will, but not just yet. He said I could walk you back to the bakery, if you like."

Myria considered. "That is… very kind of you. Yes I would be glad of your company."

"Don't mention it," Cheery smiled again, and they set off the few blocks to the bakery in amiable silence.

Not everyone was pleased to see them. Myria noted two of the constables smiled warmly at Cheery, and more or less ignored her. Corporal Stroud on the other hand… he didn't confront Myria when he saw them, but she stiffened nonetheless. For his part, he managed somehow to scowl at Myria and nod a salute at Cheery in the same movement.

"Wonder what's got under Stroud's jerkin?" Cheery mused under her breath after they passed him.

"I am sorry?"

Cheery chuckled softly. "Oh something's bothering him."

"Oh." Myria flexed her fingers, wondering why her hands kept clenching around him. "Yes. I am afraid he does not like me overmuch."

Cheery grabbed the door and opened it for the both of them, smirking at the same time. "Hah. Stroud doesn't like _anyone_ very much. Too hung up on rules if you ask me." She frowned. "Not that I'm opposed to rules mind you. Dwarfs very keen on rules, you know. But still there's _rules_, and then there's more _guidelines_.

Myria paused and half turned. "Yes. I am beginning to understand that as well."

And was tackled again, for the second time in as many days. "Myria!"

From behind her she heard Jessica's aunt laughingly inform the room that she was going to tell Jonathon that Myria was back, since Jessica seemed busy.

Cheery was grinning broadly now. "Well you certainly have friends here."

Yes. These are friends. Or perhaps they are more. But at the least, they are friends. "Yes. I truly do." She paused for a moment. "The best friends I have ever had, I would hazard."

Jessica extricated herself. "Don't forget Susan! You only missed her by a couple of hours. She was here almost the whole afternoon!"

"Yes, I shall never forget Miss Susan. What did she have to say? Does she have a pl-"

Jessica interrupted her, pointedly eyeballing Cheery "Tell you later maybe?"

"Ah," Cheery put in, "I think that's my cue. I should get back to the Yard anyway. Glad to see you safely indoors. Don't go wandering around, alright?"

"I will be safe. Thank you again Cheery. I enjoyed your company as well as your guidance."

"My pleasure."

Jessica grabbed Myria by the hand as soon as the door swung shut. "Come on! Jonny is awake and he'll want to hear all about this too."

* * *

"So how did it go?" Jonathon asked Myria. Jessica nodded eagerly. "Yeah, what's the scoop?"

"I have learned many new things about the commander, and about banks, and," Myria shuddered, "about Mister Lavish. And it was suggested I might like a position at the bank[1]."

"But the _money_. How did that go?" Jessica prompted.

"Oh! Yes I was able to obtain letters of credit for the gold. I will now be able to repay your family the funds you loaned me before." She smiled happily at Jonathon, realizing this would also please him.

"That's great Myria."

"And," she continued, "I now have paid the required sums to the Thieves' Guild. I am told the news should be commonly known within the next two days."

Jessica sighed. "That's even better. Maybe then we can get rid of the goon squad."

"Jessie!"

"Well, it's true. They are making the customers nervous. And they make me nervous too."

Jonathon shook his head and then focused on Myria again and received another warm smile in return "You are looking at me strangely Jonathon."

He smiled, enjoying the sight of Myria beginning to blush before he turned to his cousin. "Jessie, could we have a few-"

"Ew. Yeah. I'd rather not see any kissy face." She stood up and began walking away with exaggerated swaying movements.

"Jessie!"

"Whatever." Pausing at the door, she fired over a shoulder "Myria come get me whenever you two are through making slurpy noises, and I'll fill you in on Susan's plans. Ta-ta!"

She turned to laugh at their expressions, and caught a balled up sock right in the face from Jonathon.

It was a stinky sock too.

_It was worth the pain_, Jonathon decided, _to see his cousin speechless for once._

* * *

"You look marvelous Myria."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you look much more alive, even than you did this morning. I guess the stress was wearing on you too."

Myria considered. "I suppose so. I was not aware of it then. But now that you point out the possibility, I do feel _lighter_ somehow." She looked him over as he sat propped up in bed. "You look much better as well."

"Yes. When the dresses arrived, I knew things were at least going in the right direction. That was a load off my mind. And my ribs don't hurt quite as much today."

"The dresses? Oh! Yes I have more clothing now!" Myria grasped the cloth of her skirts sadly. "It is as well, since these were becoming unpresentably soiled."

Jonathon laughed quietly. "I don't mind." He looked solemn suddenly. "You know, we were having a conversation yesterday. About your newfound self-confidence and independence."

"Yes. I am finding it easier to be with myself. It is not so terrifying, after all I have seen.

"But you still care for me?"

Myria thought carefully, and Jonathon's breathing almost stopped. "I do. What if I did not?"

"That would be very sad."

"Yes. I believe it would, but I am not sure of my… feelings. I have nothing to compare them to. What if they are the wrong ones?"

"Well, let's see. What would you feel if you saw me kissing another wo-"

"Jonathon!" Her face turned red and her hands clenched.

"Ok ok." He laughed. "You managed to not hit me that time, but I'm thinking you wanted to."

"It makes me angry when you do that. Why do you do that?"

"Maybe I'm learning the wrong lessons from Susan." He coughed. "She has a way of getting to the heart of the matter in unpleasant ways. She's an odd one isn't she?"

"I believe that depends on how you define the term 'odd'. I am not sure what normal is yet, Jonathon."

"Point made." He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and looked at Myria in a way that made her feel suddenly less angry and more nervous. "So… are you too angry to be kissed?"

Myria definitely nervous... and a slightly dizzy feeling washed over her. "No, I do not think I am so angry as that."

"Good."

There was a long, quiet moment that was almost perfect. Followed by many more that were even better. It was more than an hour later that a very light-headed and flushed Myria LeJean made her way from the room, leaving behind an equally dazed young man with a slight smile on his face.

* * *

Commander Vimes leaned back in his chair and eyeballed Cheery, which didn't take much eyeballing. "Well?"

"She's an odd one, that's for sure commander. But I like her."

"Good. I'd like you to keep an eye on her, Cheery. We can't spare a company of men to hang around that bakery all day and night, but I want a at least one set of eyes on her." He waved off Cheery's protest. "I'm not asking you to spy on anyone. Just keep an eye out for trouble."

"Yessir."

* * *

Somewhere in the Shades, two men conferred in a bar. We call them men because they called each other male epithets when they'd had a few drinks and were in a good mood, and because they walked on two legs. But honestly, they were lacking in some of those character traits that we typically associate with mankind.[2]

"There ain't no money in it," the larger of the two rumbled. Jolly looked like a happy fat man, complete with rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes. Unfortunately beneath those layers of nature's insulation were some impressive muscles and a heart black as soot.

"This ain't about money, chief. This is about evening the scales," his associate added as he flipped a complicated hinged knife back and forth. His lank frame draped over the opposite bench with misleading ease. The way the knife moved back and forth, sometimes appearing to pass through some of his fingers in the process, was quite mesmerizing, but it didn't pay to watch too closely.[3]

"See, Flasher, that's where my hearing keeps getting fuzzy. You keep saying there's no money in it, but there's all that gold they say is in the watch house cellars. I keep asking you how offing some tart gets us that gold, and you say it's not about the gold."

"That _tart_ killed off Snakes, Butcher, _and_ Jimmy." Flasher's hand paused for a second, then reversed direction. "We spent the last four years working with them boys and we only had one rule."

"Never turn yer back on 'em?"

"_Besides_ that one."

"Umm…"

"_No one crosses us._ That's how we kept our heads with the Guild and the Sammies and every other cutthroat and tough in the Shades wanting to help relieve us of 'em. Anyone who knew who we were knew that if you messed with one of us, or worse squealed on one of us, that was it for yez." It's a shame about Brucie too. I wish we coulda sprung him instead of him committin' suicide in the Tanty like that."

"Yeah, him considering talking to the Sammies… that was suicide all right… but this is different."

"It won't be if the others see that we can be offed by some nobby lady. It'll be our funerals next."

"We don't know for sure that's what happened."

"You tell _me_ then. You tell me what happened." The shiny contraption reversed gears again, closing and opening like a butterfly's wings. "All's I know is, I left the safe house with that girl all trussed up safe as porridge, and passed Snakes and Butcher escorting that nob to it blindfolded and meek as a kitten. Fifteen minutes later I feel like someone's walked over my grave and I go back to find the place empty and a Sammy snooping about the neighborhood. No sign of Snakes or Butcher or Jimmy anywhere, and now the Sammies say they're dead."

Jolly shook three chins and a set of cheeks. "Maybe they did a runner."

There was a pause and a thin, dark knife suddenly appeared flat on the table between them. "I could cut yer for a crack like that, Jolly."

"You could try." Jolly smiled wide, "You'd have to work a while to get to anything important, and I wouldn't be standing still while you was working at it."

Flasher snorted. "Fine. Fair enough." The knife disappeared. "But you _know_ they would'na run without the gold. And they ain't _got_ the gold. I'm telling you, that woman did something to 'em. And word'll get around that our crew got gutted, half our boys offed, by a nob. And then were'll we be?"

"Got a point there…" the big man said, eyeballing the knife in Flasher's hand.

"Of course I do. So here's what I'm thinking…"

* * *

Just outside the servant's entrance at Rust Manor, Feddleman stared at a lean figure with eyes wide and jaw agape. "What do you _mean_ she is alive?"

"I only found out yesterday, Mr. Feddleman. I didn't think it would mat-"

"I don't _pay_ you to _think_." Feddleman hissed. "I pay you for _information_. Do you have any _idea_ how angry His Lordship will be?" He paused to consider, and swallowed. "No, you couldn't possibly know."

"I'm sorry Mr. Feddleman," the man bobbed his head nervously. The truth was, he'd found out yesterday, and it had taken him all day to get the nerve to come tell Feddleman.

"Sorry. You are sorry. Yes remember that when we are both on the street unable to see and begging for coins."

His informant gasped. "Surely His Lordship wouldn't have us _blinded_ for not finding out until now?"

"_Blinded_? Heavens no, His Lordship is not a barbarian."

"Thank the gods."

"No, the reason we wouldn't be able to see, is because he'd have our ears torn off, and our hats would fall over our eyes." He considered as the man turned slightly green. "Yes it's slightly less horrible to imagine, but only marginally."

* * *

Somewhere that was, in any meaningful way, nowhere at all, three cowled figures conferred.

_Something must be done regarding the entity LeJean._

_It considers itself an *I*. _

_It is an abomination._

_Surely, it can do us no further harm. Why is there need for further intervention?_

If the Auditors were able to feel emotion, one would characterize the following silence as "seething". But of course, they cannot, so it must surely be our imagination.

_Right. Right. Pretend I didn't a- _*pop*

Upon which, the unlucky Auditor was immediately replaced by another who was, shall we say, of much more like mind.

_We cannot risk direct physical intervention again, _the first Auditor continued.

Another silence. The Auditors would have shuddered with revulsion at the idea of physical intervention, had there been glands involved. The Poker tended to have that effect on some creatures.

The second hazarded,_ Perhaps there is… another way. Surely there are any number of individuals who can be… persuaded… that removing the entity LeJean is in their own best interests?_

* * *

[1] We are not talking about her conversation with Mister Lavish, mind you. We are talking about the position suggested by the clerk. As in a _job_. Sheesh…

[2] Starting with "not wanting to cut your throat as soon as looking at you, and working up from there. Paragons of society they weren't, unless it was the _Narcissus Society of Sadistic Barstards_ you were referring to. And we call it a bar, because it was made of wood, and there was alcohol involved, but really places like that are little more than Schrödinger's Barfight en Potentia.

[3] Because, while you were watching that shiny and practically useless piece of complicated metal flashing around, it would do well to wonder what the hell the bastard was doing with his _other_ hand and the very plain and above all very _sharp_ blade he kept in his pocket before you found out the hard way.


	19. All Klatch Breaks Loose

**19. All Klatch Breaks Loose**

"Jessica?"

"Mrmf."

Myria sighed. Apparently this was going to be an ongoing problem. She again needed to visit the privy to attend to bodily functions. And Jessica was again asleep with at least three limbs draped over Myria.

After some struggling and complaints from Jessica, she managed to extract herself with more grace than the previous morning, and made it to the privy without becoming intimately acquainted with the floor.

_I must obtain my own lodgings; this is becoming less than comfortable._

* * *

They say that the early worm catches the fish, or something along those lines. Lord Vetinari: Patrician, Tyrant, and ThudMaster, found that anything said by "they" was on the whole profoundly untrustworthy, but often contained a kernel of truth.

For example, it always paid to be aware of information before anyone else. Vetinari's network of spies, informants, and various miscreants trying to save their own necks was very efficient in this respect. Sometimes so efficient that Vetinari would learn of events _before the perpetrators themselves had even considered doing them_.

As such, we can't say he was surprised when Drumknott brought a particular item to his attention.

"Milord, I thought you might find this item in The Times of interest."

Vetinari scanned the newspaper clipping quickly before setting it down on the desk and steepling his fingers. "Hmm…"

"I also note, Milord, that yesterday you asked me to pencil in a meeting for today with Mister Slant, representing Lord Rust, and a second with the Duchess of Sto Helit and Lady LeJean."

"I find your memory for trivia to be astounding as always, Drumknott."

"Yes Milord. Shall I have them notified that they wish to meet with you?"

"That would be fortuitous. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Indeed Milord."

* * *

"Uh oh."

Sergeant Angua looked up from her desk to see Captain Carrot waving a news clipping in her direction. "What?"

"Commander Vimes isn't going to be happy about this." He handed the paper to Angua, who read the article with an increasingly sinking feeling. "Do you think he's seen it?" Carrot continued.

Angua laughed without humor. "No."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because he hasn't yelled for-"

"CARROT! MY OFFICE! NOW!"

"He's seen it."

* * *

Feddleman noted that Lord Rust's spittle quotient was already approaching a five on the "Mad Dog" scale. Not that he needed any visual confirmation considering that the bell ringing from Rust's office was approaching a sort of antiharmonic cacophony that could shatter crystal.

_Please tell me the butler was not stupid enough to bring him the article in The Times._

As soon as he had opened the door, the sight of shredded newsprint all over the floor told him all hope was to be abandoned.

"FEDDLEMAN! Get me Slant. NOW!"

* * *

Madame Frout always found visits from Susan disturbing, because they happened so seldom. Not that she would have wanted more frequent visits either. The thought gave her a slight feeling of vertigo. _Oh dear, no._

"Madame Frout, I am afraid I will need to take a short leave for some hours today."

_Oh!_ Frout felt a moment of joy, but managed to catch herself before it reached her face. "Of course. How terrible. Shall I arrange for a substitute for the day?"

"I don't believe it will be required. I will tell young Melanie that she is in charge of the class for the day. I'm sure everyone will be on their best behavior." Susan considered. "Well except for Jason, but that can't be helped."[1]

Madame Frout shuddered. The fact was, Susan was right. It was unnatural the way her class behaved… and behave they did! They were the most well-mannered and intimidating group of children she had ever been exposed to. It was simply uncanny. "I hope you are not… ill?"

"No nothing important. It seems a friend of mine requires my assistance."

Madame Frout's mouth said, "Ah, very well then." But her face said: _You have friends?_

_Yes. Yes I do,_ Susan thought with some surprise as she left the school. It may have been her expression, but several dogs made a point of vacating the area as she approached.

Then again, it might also have been the neatly rolled newspaper clenched in her right hand.

* * *

When Myria returned from private ablutions, Jessica's Aunt Rosemarie grabbed her by the arm and waved something in front of her. She could tell it was important by the fact that Rosemarie's eyes were wide and her face somewhat pale. She felt a certain pride that she was getting better at reading expressions.

"Myria! Have you seen this?"

"I am seeing it now."

"Silly goose. I mean have you read it?"

She handed the article to Myria, who began reading with growing unease. Finishing, she carefully set the paper down on the table before sitting down herself. "I believe I may have further difficulties." Her head felt fuzzy and light. It was an odd sensation, almost pleasant if it wasn't for the fact she also wanted to throw up.

"Let me get you some mint tea."

"Yes. Thank you. That would be most appreciated."

* * *

**_"WHO IS MYRIA LEJEAN?"  
Possibly Wealthiest Woman in Ankh Morpork Throws City into Uproar!  
Kidnapping Ring Threatening Peerage? Or Personal Vendetta?_**

_Sacharissa Cripslock – Staff _

_The Times has reason to believe that the kidnapping of young Jessica Knäcke of Body Street, and the vandalizing of one of Lord Rust's properties on Kings Way do, in fact, share a common element._

_Through careful investigation, our staff has discovered that a visiting noblewoman, one Lady Myria LeJean of Genua, was not only newly resident in the house on Kings Way at the time of the burglary, but apparently has some sort of relationship with the owners of the Body Street Bakery, and is even now receiving deliveries at that location._

_A source at Bullworth's Exclusive Designes, known throughout the city for the Lady Venturi line, confirmed that they were "pleased to deliver two very lovely designs to Lady LeJean yesterday" and The Times confirmed firsthand that they were delivered to the Body Street Bakery by courier._

_This reporter attempted to interview members of the Watch and the Knäcke family regarding the presence of several Watchmen on apparent guard duty at the Bakery as recently as yesterday. Young Jessica Knäcke, who seems to be well recovered from her prior ordeal, was kind enough to speak with this reporter, though she offered no explanation for the presence of the Watch. She did, however, provide some rather delicious cakes, which this reporter can recommend with a clear conscience._

_Corporal Stroud of the Watch had no comment and attempted several times to prevent this reporter from entering the bakery, going so far as to inform our photographer that photos of the business were "not allowed". In addition, he did not offer this reporter cake, nor tea._

_These strange events certainly add fuel to the rumors that the Watch has in its custody a "breathtaking quantity of gold" recovered from the Kings Way crime scene, according to one inside source. In attempting to confirm the circumstances behind the alleged burglary, this reporter tried to speak to Lord Rust and was informed only, through his representative, that the gold was "most clearly Lord Rust's property". Lord Rust's representative would provide no further specifics._

_In light of the lack of cooperation from those directly involved, The Times can only provide our loyal readers our own questions. Does the gold, if it truly exists, belong to Lord Rust or Lady LeJean? Why would Lord Rust maintain such a quantity of wealth in a residence he is providing for lease? Is the Knäckes' relationship with Lady LeJean the cause of young Jessica's recent kidnapping?_

_This reporter also spoke to a high-ranking representative of the Thieves Guild, who on promises of anonymity assured us that the alleged Kings Way burglary was not a sanctioned activity and that at this time both Lady LeJean and Lord Rust were "fully protected" and that they would view any further unlicensed activities "with extreme prejudice"._

_Even worse, is this an isolated event, or is there a particularly brazen criminal gang in operation in Ankh Morpork, ready to prey on wealthy visiting peers? _

_The question remains. Are our own citizens at risk, or is the presence of round the clock guards at the Body Street Bakery a sign that the miscreants and malefactors are still intent on Lady LeJean? Only The Times will tell!_

* * *

[1] In point of fact, Jason would be on his best behavior as well. It just happened that his best behavior was still, in the grand scheme of things, the social equivalent of pulling the legs off of frogs. We blame his parents.


	20. An Eternity of Instants

**20. An Eternity of Instants**

Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander, City Watch, regarded his most trusted subordinate. "Carrot, someone inside the Watch has been talking."

"Sir?"

Vimes sighed. _Remember who you are talking to, Sam._ "To The Times, Carrot. To The Times."

"Yessir.[1]"

"You know how I feel about that newspaper of de Worde's, Carrot."

The captain's browed furrowed, "That it's only good for the privy sir?"

Vimes smiled. "Exactly."

The furrow increased. "But sir, isn't it a bit dim for reading in there?"

Vimes gave Carrot's honest face a long slow look as he counted to three. "Exactly…" he continued carefully, "which is why I recommend an _alternate_ use of it." Vimes considered his left hand, which was fiddling with a bit of newsprint. "And the men _know_ how I feel about it. And yet," His fist bunched, crumpling the paper into a tight wad, "one of them saw fit to inform de Worde's minions that an unknown person-"

"Pleasant Omnian[2] I believe was the term they used, Commander."

That diffused a bit of his anger. "Hah, right. As if there is any such animal." He coughed. "As I was saying, now that de Worde has the idea that there was someone besides the Watch involved in young Jessica's Knäcke's recovery, it's only a matter of time before they find out who that someone was."

Carrot scratched his head. "Do you want me to inform the men that they are not to say anything further?"

Vimes shook his head sadly. "Wouldn't work. Once de Worde gets his teeth into something, trying to stay closed-mouth about it doesn't help. Hell, it makes it worse! Because then he's _sure_ that you're hiding something." Vimes considered the ball of paper in his hand, and pitched it over his shoulder. "No we're going to try a different approach. Send word to de Word[3] that we've got an exclusive interview lined up for him."

"Yessir."

"And arrange an escort for LeJean to get to the Palace. Make it Cheery, she has been getting on well with LeJean, and I have a sneaky feeling Vetinari's going to want to talk to her about that article." His face contorted into something approaching a smile. "I am waiting to see her try that little trick she pulled on me, with Vetinari. Somehow I doubt she would want _him_ stopping by the bakery for a chat."

* * *

Myria's stomach had settled a bit once the initial shock wore off. Also, having something in her stomach to actually throw up (tea) sped up the process a bit (throwing up that is) and seemed to take some of the stress with it.

_Perhaps that is the purpose of throwing up? To express how one feels about the stress of the moment? _She considered. _And having expressed it, the stress is relieved._

_I would prefer other means._

Another side-effect of throwing up was that Jessica and Rosemarie had shown significant concern, which was somewhat comforting. That had lasted only until Susan had arrived and with Drill-Sergeant-like-efficiency, had whipped Myria into shape and trotted her the few blocks to the Palace while insisting Jessica stay at the bakery.

They barely cleared the threshold of the bakery before Myria began questioning exactly what they were doing. "But, what if the Patrician does not wish to see us?"

Susan smirked. "Oh he does. Trust me."

"But we do not have an appointment."

"We will. You can bet yesterday's fish that Vetinari has read every word in that article. Or has someone who did it for him and told him all about it."

"But-"

Susan stopped and gripped Myria's shoulder. "Myria, please. Just relax and trust me. I know exactly what I am doing."

"My ladies?"

Susan and Myria both turned to find a young constable standing, hands open and palms out in the universal gesture of 'please don't hit me'.

"Yes," Susan answered coldly.

"Ma'am, not to impose, but may I ask where you're bound? My orders are to guard the Knäcke's but the Commander-"

Susan considered her options before responding. Bah. Why torture the pathetic thing. "The Palace."

The constable physically sagged in relief. "Thank you miss."

"Pray don't mention it," and she whirled, pulling Myria down the street toward Lower Broadway and the Brass Bridge.

* * *

Myria would have preferred a longer walk, to further come to terms with events, but unfortunately it was less than ten short blocks to the Palace entrance. In fact there were only a few yards from the river-side gate when they heard the sound of steel-shod boots and much huffing and puffing behind them. Turning, they beheld a red-faced and very winded Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom hurrying toward them. Once there, she pulled her axe from her belt, planted it firmly butt-first on the cobblestones, and leaned over it gasping for breath.

Myria felt a mix of pleasure and concern. "Cheery! It is good to see you. Is there something wrong?"

"Here *gasp* escort *cough* Palace."

Myria and Susan stared at Cheery, then turned to look at the gates a scant feet away and two somewhat amused palace guards on either side. Myria cocked her head slightly. "But that makes no sense, Cheery. You observe that are already here."

Cheery coughed deeply and then shook her head. "Not yet you're not." She took another deep breath and stood a bit straighter. "There's still a good four axe-lengths to go, and I'm not getting a bad chit for failure to follow orders. I'm _escorting_."

Susan raised an eyebrow at Myria. "Do you mean to say," asked Myria, "that if you walk with us these few feet then you have fulfilled the letter of your orders."

Cheery nodded.

"And this is important, and costs me nothing."

Another vigorous nod.

"Come on Myria," Susan smirked, "let's be escorted."

The palace guards let them through with grins of their own, while Cheery slumped down against the wall beside the gate. "I'll just wait for you here. I need to sit down."

* * *

Myria and Susan were met at the palace entrance by a well-dressed and studious-looking man who introduced himself as the Patrician's chief clerk.

"The Patrician is expecting you, but he is currently in a meeting. If you would be so kind as to wait, he will call upon you at his convenience." So saying, he led the two up several flights of stairs to a sparsely furnished room and excused himself.

"At his _convenience_. Of all the _nerve_," Susan muttered.

The two women stood for a few moments, then seated themselves in two chairs that were somehow a mixture of being too soft and too hard at the same time, and also rather wobbly in a strange way.

Regardless, Susan managed to make herself marginally comfortable, until she noticed Myria staring at a large grandfather clock in the corner, eyes narrowing and jaw muscles working visibly.

_Oh dear. Could it possibly remind her of Clockson? _She spent a few more seconds trying to decide whether to ask, before Myria broke the silence.

"_Susan_."

"What is the matter?" Susan replied warily.

"The _clock_."

"What about it?

"It is… _wrong_."

Susan studied it. Face. Hands, moving. Pendulum swinging. Ticking noise. The time looked correct even. "It looks like it is telling the right time to me. What, is it a few minutes fast or slow? _Seriously_ Myria you need to be less insistent on being exact."

"_No_. The actual time is correct, that is, correct enough. But… can you not _hear_ it? The seconds are not all the same length. And there is no regularity to the pattern. It is… _disconcerting_. _Wrong_."

Susan closed her eyes for a moment, listening carefully, then grimaced. "You know Myria, sometimes it's better not to share your little observations, especially when they are correct." She rubbed her temples. "Now I'm going to have _that_ eating away at my sanity too for however long we are here."

"So I am not imagining it? How is this _possible_? It makes my teeth ache!"

Susan pursed her lips. "I bet the bastard had it specially designed that way, just to put visitors on edge. Now stop focusing on it and think of something else, or I'll have to start singing to distract us… and neither one of us want that."[4]

* * *

It was an eternity later, measured out in three-thousand, eight-hundred and fifty-four point two maddeningly erratic and agonizingly irregular ticks of the demon clock from the dungeon dimensions before the door opened again, by which time Myria felt the beginnings of a head ache and an intense desire to reduce the clock to its component atoms. Susan seemed little better, and had been muttering something about hoping the designer had already met her grandfather.

It was not, however, Drumknott, but a very aged man who walked stiffly and with soft creaking noises. In fact, Myria decided, he was more than aged. He was ancient. A slight odor of formaldehyde and nearly fossilized leather seemed to waft with him as he paused in front of the duo, giving Myria an appraising look.

"You _must_ be Miss LeJean."

_What manner of human is this?_

"Lady LeJean," corrected Susan.

An observation nagging Myria through the head ache broke through into her forebrain, bypassed the neurons that handled courtesy and propriety, and engaged the mouth without asking anyone else's opinion "You have no pulse." She blurted out, then felt her face flush and warm. _Stupid body._

"How impertinent," the man responded dryly[5], "and yet nonetheless true. And you have no gold, Miss LeJean."

"_Lady_ LeJean," interjected Susan, with more heat.

The man responded, still facing Myria. "That remains to be seen. Twerps Peerage certainly has no record of the LeJean family in its annals of nobility." He turned to face Susan finally, "The Sto Helit line, on the other hand, is well established, _My Lady_."

Susan crossed her arms and tilted her head back slightly. "I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure."

"Forgive me. I am Mister Slant, of Morecombe, Slant & Honeyplace, Attorneys."

A cold smile spread across her face. "Oh I know who you _are, _Slant. And it's no pleasure at all meeting you. Now, if you would be so accommodating as to move aside, we have a meeting with the Patrician.

One positive side effect of having been dead for several hundred years was that you are somewhat immune to insult, probably a result of all hormone-producing organs having run out of fuel decades ago. "How droll. And yes, I am quite aware of the purpose of your visit. You see, I happen to be representing Lord Rust's interests in this little misunderstanding."

Myria could only watch as two individuals, both very used to getting their way, stood facing each other with apparent calm. "I'm sure you are," Susan continued, "It is too bad that he has no interests to represent in this matter."

"That remains to be seen. However, I do wish Miss LeJean the best. In every _other_ regard, of course. You may consider this some sort of personal attack, but I assure you it is merely business."

Susan's eyes narrowed. "As if that excuses everything."

"In the law, there are no excuses, only precedents. Now, if you will excuse me I have matters to attend to." Nodding to Myria, he turned and with only the merest hint of shamble, made his way to the door.

"Well. _There's_ someone who is overdue."

"Susan!"

She actually looked contrite. "One of the hazards of being in my family. I can't help feeling that the undead are simply _cheating_. Honestly I don't know why my grandfather lets them get away with it."

Myria was about to point out that this seemed somewhat of a double standard, considering her own recent state, but they were interrupted by the chief clerk's return. "My apologies my ladies. The Patrician will see you now."

* * *

[1] This is always a tricky response. Every watchman, soldier, and underling across the universe has learned the value of the "yessir" when faced with an observation from a superior. It has the benefit of being a vague response that can mean anything from "I absolutely agree with you sir!" to "I recognize that you have just spoken sir!" Which leaves the interpretation up to the superioriorior officer.

[2] Like a Good Samaritan, but with pamphlets. Lots of pamphlets.

[3] You grimaced. I know you did. If it's any consolation so did Vimes, and _he_ is the one who said it.

[4] We'll have to take Susan's word for it, because frankly I've never heard her sing, and neither have you. You can bet, however, that if she did it would be absolutely nothing about long imaginary words or taking ones medicine the easy way.

[5] Not that he had any other manner of responding. When it's been over 250 years since you had a drink of water, the most appropriate word for your texture, attitude, and anything else you care to apply it to is at the least "dry" and at worst "practically desiccated."


	21. When Havelock Met Susan

**21. When Havelock Met Susan**

_In which there is absolutely __**zero**__ chance of any restaurant scene involving the Duchess of Sto Helit pantomiming any bodily functions whatsoever (intimate or otherwise). I mean really people, what kind of story do you think this is?_

_A/N: My thanks to DarkPatu, Mikell, Fledge, SSC, Bookworm Gal, and Sir Henry for your continued support and feedback. You may find that I took some of your questions and suggestions to heart in this chapter. ;-) _

* * *

"Ah, Lady Sto Helit. To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence."

Susan blinked. This was not at all how she expected this meeting to begin. _Surely he knows exactly why we are here._ "We are here, Lord Patrician, because I assumed you would wish to discuss the matter of a certain newspaper article."

Vetinari leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling for a moment. "Indeed. But that is not the question I asked. I understand why _Lady LeJean_ is here. I would like to know why _you_, in particular, are here in my office. Are you intending to act as her advocate?"

"What? No! I am not trained in the law."

Vetinari frowned and leaned forward. "Then, if I may ask, are you here representing the interests of Sto Helit in this matter?"

"Certainly not. What possible interest could Sto Helit have in this situation?"

Vetinari blinked, suspicion giving way to the most dramatic display of befuddlement Susan had ever seen[1]. "I ask the same question myself, and the result is a number of interesting possibilities. The fact that Lady LeJean's fortune would represent a destabilizing amount of wealth were it to reach the streets of Ankh Morpork gives some idea of how it could impact the fortunes of a, shall we say, more modest city-state like Sto Helit." Vetinari's voice shifted slightly, becoming literally saturated with sarcasm. "Indeed, what possible interest _could_ you have, Lady… I'm sorry, what was your title again?"

Myria watched this exchange with growing concern. She was used to seeing Susan dominate practically every conversation she had been involved in. But here, it appeared this was not the case at all.

Myria was suddenly very afraid of the man on the other side of the desk.

Susan gave a sharp laugh, but it seemed more an expression of disbelief than humor. "Are you deliberately trying to be obtuse with me, Lord Patrician?"

"Perish the thought. That might result in an international incident. Ah, now I remember. Yes, an international incident because you are, after all, the rightful ruler of Sto Helit." Vetinari picked up a piece of paper off his desk. "Sto Helit. How are things there, by the way? Governing can be such a heavy burden, you must have little free time to pursue your other interests."

Myria watched Susan's lips pale a little as she pressed them together to bite back a retort. Finally she took a deep breath, exhaled, and answered haughtily, "I fail to see how that is your business, Lord Patrician." Susan was, very clearly, becoming angry. Myria had seen Susan angry before, that was not surprising. But always before, Susan had seemed to be _using_ that anger as a tool for _her_ to control the conversation. Here, it seemed the opposite was occurring.

"I have already expressed why it would be the business of Ankh Morpork, whose interests I am cursed to represent. And your answer surprises me, since clearly you feel it is your business to insinuate yourself into Ankh Morpork's affairs? Lady Sto Helit, you have built quite a life in Ankh Morpork over the last several years. A most unremarkably _normal_ life, here in our fair and lovely…" Vetinari seemed to have a momentary issue with his throat, "… in our city[2]. And now I find you in my office, attempting to sway domestic policy. Do you not find this somewhat incongruous?"

Myria felt her body reacting in odd ways as Vetinari continued to speak. For one, it seemed intent on sinking as low as possible in the seat, while her feet were pushing gently but inexorably against the floor as if to move both her and the chair as far from the situation as possible.[3]

Susan's lips moved slightly, and Myra realized with a start that Susan was counting under her breath. Susan's fingers were turning white where she gripped the chair arms, Myria saw. Finally Susan answered "I. Am. _Here_. As Myria's… friend. _Nothing_ more."

Vetinari smiled coolly. "Then I am relieved. It is good to have friends, as long as they are more help than hindrance. I find very few who fit that requirement, and thus have very few friends." He sat back and steepled his fingers, seeming to shift gears. "How is your grandfather by the way? Do give him my regards."

Myria felt a shock run through her, as she stared at the Patrician's face. He appeared… calm. As if he had just stated that an apple was red or that the world was a disc. She felt a sudden internal struggle as half of her insisted that she turn her head and the other half fought to keep her eyes forward. The silence beside her was palpable, and she managed to turn enough to see a saw faint blue tint to Susan's pupils for a few seconds before fading. Only then did Susan respond through gritted teeth. "He is well, as ever. Thank you for asking."

"I have not met your grandfather personally, of course. I only know him by reputation."

_And the two of you have crossed paths before,_ Susan said in the safety of her own head,_ considering your education at the Assassins Guild, you self-absorbed, arrogant, little-_

"But enough about me." It was disconcerting that Vetinari's response could have been in reply to what she was thinking. "As much as I appreciate loyalty, I would like to hear, _Lady LeJean_," Vetinari turned to Myria and gestured pointedly, "in your _own_ words how it can be that a quantity of gold, claimed by _you_, came to be imbedded in the core of flagstone that Lord Rust's advocate has provided affidavits," Vetinari waved a modest sheaf of papers, "attesting that these same flagstones were installed several years ago, well before you ever rented the property."

Myria tensed and opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Susan. "My Lord Patrician, with all respect, that is not a matter which you should be required to address."

Vetinari continued to calmly gaze at Myria as if Susan had not spoken. "Lady LeJean, could you tell me how many ounces of ink are in my inkwell?"

Myria blinked, feeling her stomach settle immediately. _A problem with a straightforward answer_. She considered further. _And a benign question as well. Perhaps he has heard of my analytical abilities? _She glanced at the inkwell. "Based on the size of the container, my lord, and assuming the glass is of uniform thickness, it could hold no more than four point three two five ounces. I would have to hold it to determine exactly how much it currently contains." She heard a strangled noise beside her, and turned to see Susan covering her face with both hands.

"Ah," Vetinari responded, "it seems my guess was incorrect. I was concerned you were either an imbecile, or a mute, considering Lady Sto Helit seems intent on speaking for you." Myria processed his words, looking for the trap, and realized that he was not, in fact, insulting her, but was aiming yet _another_ verbal barb at Susan. _And I have thoroughly misjudged his intent in asking the question._

Myria shook her head slightly. "I believe, Lord Patrician, that you are utilizing sarcasm. I am afraid I am not proficient in its use."

There was another long silence. "I see. Then I will attempt to restrain myself. Now, since we are being honest with each other, and I dislike repeating myself, I await your answer to my previous question."

Myria glanced at Susan, who seemed locked in her own internal struggle, and considered her options. Telling the truth seemed out of the question but… _Lying to this man would be a very _very_ poor decision._ "I am afraid… it is complicated, my lord."

"And I am a simple man. Use small words."

"I put the gold there."

"Inside the stones."

"Yes."

"Which, I have no doubt, had been in place years before you leased this property, as Lord Rust insists."

"Yes."

Vetinari continued to regard Myria carefully. "Lady LeJean, let us, for a moment, assume that I believe you. Let us assume, for the sake of argument, that you have the power to, for example, create pure gold from nothing, and place it inside the flagstones of a residence. Short of demonstrating how you performed this astounding and troubling feat, what proof can you provide, that will allow me to instruct the Commander of the City Watch to release the gold to you?"

Myria examined the words he used. There was a danger here in the way this human used words. _He has manipulated Susan_, she realized. _And now he will decide whether I am to be trusted_. "I do not believe that there is any other evidence that I could provide that would meet this criteria."

"So you see the quandary I find myself in. Because, strange as it may sound, I find that I believe _you_ rather than Lord Rust, a fact that you will not repeat outside of this office. My belief is as much due to a deep understanding of Rust as it is due to anything you might say or do. But regardless-" There was the sound of Susan clearing her throat, causing Vetinari to pause. The moment stretched on for a few more while he examined her as a lizard would a particularly interesting insect.

Susan for her part, seemed to struggle between patience and anger.[4]

"Ah, Lady Sto Helit. I had forgotten you were here. You have something to add?"

"I have a solution, _my lord_, to your quandary."

"Enlighten me. In what manner can this weighty matter be taken from my weary shoulders?"

Lady Myria can invoke the Protocol of Lord Periwinkle."

Vetinari's chief clerk stepped from the side of the desk and whispered for several moments into Vetinari's ear. "I see. Well, that would indeed save me the trouble of listening to what is likely to be hours upon hours of tedious argument. You do understand, Lady LeJean, that you will require an advocate for that process? And that Lord Rust will, doubtless, be represented by Mr. Slant?"

Myria opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I was not aware. But surely obtaining an advocate will not be a problem?"

"For every problem, I am told, there is a at least one solution. But at times the price is dear." He picked up another paper in front of him, and waved his hand in dismissal. "I am sure you have much business to attend to."

Myria felt the intense urge to flee, but another problem of a very different nature had been boiling away in her hindbrain since those long minutes in the waiting room. The idea of going back through it shoved it through on an express circuit.

"Lord Patrician?"

"Hmmm..?"

"Your… clock…"

Vetinari smoothly placed the paper back on his desk, and regarding Myria coolly. "Yes?"

"It appears to be… malfunctioning. The seconds are… incorrect."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Fascinating. Do you know, Lady LeJean, that we placed that clock in the waiting area over five years ago, and you are the first individual to have suggested it might be malfunctioning?"

"I am… fascinated by things… that… measure things."

"Indeed. Drumknott, do you happen to know who designed that particular clock?"

"Yes my lord. I believe it was one Mister B. S. Johnson. One of his more functional results."

"I see. Unfortunately, Lady LeJean, I can think of only one person in all of Ankh Morpork who might have been a match for Mister Johnson's unique… yes that is the right word… _unique_ brand of genius. And I say unfortunately, because Mr. Clockson is no longer available to us. I understand you had business dealings with him yourself, did you not? Ah, are you unwell my lady?" Vetinari glanced at Susan. "Perhaps you should help Lady LeJean back to the bakery, I do believe she has had enough excitement for one morning."

With Drumknott's assistance, Susan was only too glad to oblige.

_The faster I am away the presence of that smug, self-satisfied, arrogant… well the better for both of us._

Myria was running on backup systems. Legs and lungs and heart working on autopilot as large portions of her brain had the door closed with a big "_Do Notte Disturbe Any Further_" sign hanging on the handle. Inside, a committee was having an emergency meeting.

_This human knows. _Myria knew it, without a doubt._ He knows exactly what and who I am, and he is deciding what to do about me._

_He is more terrifying that Mister White, axe or no axe._

_I am doomed._

* * *

When Drumknott returned to the Oblong Office, he found Vetinari standing at the window, gazing at the city. "I do not believe Lady Sto Helit is favorably disposed toward you, my lord."

"Yes, though it took some effort. I could not make it either easy or pleasant for her." Vetinari sighed. "She _does_ so treasure the illusion of her modest and above all mundane lifestyle. Imagine the disservice were I to allow her easy use of her title whenever she pleases, until the temptation to do so frequently were more than she could resist. Titles, Drumknott, must be equal part blessing and curse, or they quickly become a source of misplaced pride. This is the lesson that Rust seems to have forgotten, if the Rusts ever allowed him to learn it."

"And Lady LeJean?"

"Ah that is more difficult. The question of who _owns_ the gold is rather a trivial one, frankly. The real problem is the existence of the gold and of LeJean herself. Do you remember the incident with the Agataean tourist?"

"It was before my time, milord, but I have read the reports regarding Mr. Twoflower and his impact on the economy of Ankh Morpork."[5]

"This is even more problematic. Both LeJean and gold in small doses do no harm, but in the extreme either could distort the functioning of the city to the point where they must be plucked from it, for our own protection of course." Vetinari frowned. "It would be a pity. She is a remarkable… individual."

"Then the hearings Lady Sto Helit suggested are not necessary?"

"Necessary and critical, Drumknott, but not for the reason stated. Many things can be brought to light during such a process. And with that, please send out the letters we drew up this morning to Lord Rust, Lady LeJean, and Archchancellor Ridcully regarding the need for a representative for the hearings."

"I had intended to ask about that my lord. Your inclusion of Archchancellor Ridcully, my lord. Doesn't the protocol require three Peers?"

"In this case, Drumknott, I believe we can and should bend the rules a bit." Vetinari smiled. "I am, after all, the tyrant."

* * *

[1] Outside of trying to explain to two parents why their three-year old was not, in fact, the most intelligent and amazing child she had ever seen, destined for greatness beyond comprehension, because she managed to go potty all by herself.

[2] He just couldn't bring himself to do it…

[3] It's very similar to the feeling one gets when ones friend says "Hey man, hold my beer while I poke this badger with a spoon."

[4] This was in part due to the fact that Susan, against her entire nature and pride, had for a moment found her right hand on the verge of rising into the air _to seek permission to speak_! It was simply unconscionable.

[5] See Pratchett's books "The Colour of Magic" and "The Light Fantastic". Twoflower is credited with introducing the concept of insurance (along with a market-glutting quantity of gold) to Ankh Morpork, which almost caused half the city to be burnt to the ground.


	22. Mister Filth

**22. Mister Filth**

_[A/N: I apologize for this chapter being a bit short, but I thought you would enjoy an update sooner rather than later. :-) ]_

Figures appeared throughout the city. Whether it was the same three, appearing simultaneously to different individuals, or fractions of seconds after each other, or separate sets, would be impossible to determine. And frankly a worthless endeavor, since they were of identical appearance, mind, and intent.

* * *

The Lord Patrician stood before the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out upon the city he both ruled and served. Someone able to gaze into the labyrinthine workings of that mind would, if they survived the journey, be surprised to learn which of the two he did more of.

As he stood, lost in thought, a slight change, a chill in the air, brushed up against the hairs on the back of his neck. Eyes narrowed, he spoke to the empty space before him without turning. "You do not have an appointment."

_An appointment is immaterial. You are present, and we observe you have no required actions beyond those of immediate physical processes._

_And that assumption is why your kind are hopelessly flawed._ "Then you are mistaken."

_Impossible._

_And that is the other reason._ "And yet, this is not the first time you have been mistaken, is it?" Vetinari turned to consider the three shadowy figures before him. He smiled slightly. "Nevertheless, since we are both here, I find I am curious as to your purpose."

There was a brief pause. _The creature that styles itself LeJean. It is not human._

Vetinari stroked his narrow beard with a forefinger. "Ah. Yes. I begin to see. You will be disappointed to learn that I am fully aware of what Lady Myria LeJean _was_, and what she is guilty of."

There was another, longer pause. _And yet, you allow it continue… _there was a collective shudder _existing in its present form. This is not logical. _

"Ah. Then I assume you have come to impress upon me the benefits of changing those circumstances, for my own good of course."

_The creature LeJean is dangerous to you, and anathema to us. It would be better for all if it ceased functioning._

Vetinari smiled, showing very white and even teeth. It was not a pleasant smile, and reminded one of relentless swimmers in salty waters. It was the equivalent of _The Poker_, that smile, and the Auditors drew back from the force of it. "Again, you are correct. Lady LeJean is supremely dangerous to the well functioning of my city. And she is, indeed, the very antithesis of everything you represent."

There was the Auditor equivalent of an exhale. _Then you will do as we suggest._

"Hardly. You create a tool, and are now horrified that it decided not to serve the purpose for which you fashioned it. How delightfully terrified you must be. And now you seek another tool, to deal with the first. There is a wondrous irony in this, do you not agree?"

Silence.

"No? A pity. No, I will not be your tool in this matter. I suggest you seek another. And I suggest you do so now, before my patience wanes."

_You threaten us? We cannot be harmed._

"_Perish_ the thought, I merely enlighten. And I believe that recent events have proven your assertion catastrophically wrong. This audience is at an end."

* * *

In a quiet study rife with oak panels, well-used and above all expensive furnishings, a serious man sat at a serious desk. He was in some ways like Lord Rust, and in other ways very unlike Lord Rust. Like, because he also was a man of wealth, prestige, and power. Unlike because he actually worked for a living[1] and had no illusions as to his place in the city, nor his mortality. At the moment, he was trying to catch up with the paperwork. It was amazing how much paperwork could be generated by a few commissions.

There was the sound, at least metaphorically, of a throat clearing.

"Ah yes, you again," Lord Downey spoke without raising his head from his desk.

_We have go-_

"Yes, yes. You have gold and you are willing to pay. Unfortunately, considering that the last contract for which you retained our services required special handling, I am afraid we are short of the particular expertise you might require."

_The cessation of Mister Teatime was none of our responsibility._

Lord Downey set down the pin and crossed his hands on the desk before looking up. "Nevertheless, I am afraid we are not at home to any further assignments/contracts from your particular quarter. Good day… sirs."

* * *

"What in the name of Blind Io are you?!" The man gasped as he threw himself backward against the wall.

Feddleman did not have nor pretend to have the presence of mind to deal with spectral figures materializing in a room where they had no business being. As a result, he nearly wet himself when he turned to find them hovering in front of him.

_What we are is immaterial. We have a proposition for the human Lord Rust. From observation we have found you to be the proper conduit for conveying this proposal._

Feddleman pulled his wits, and his digestive system, together and put on his best 'business' tone. "I _am_ Lord Rust's agent in many matters, but I'm sure he would not wish to be involved in anything," he looked them up and down, going for displeased, "uncanny."

_The proposition involves cessation of the entity that calls itself LeJean._

For several seconds, only the ticking of a clock could be heard.

"Perhaps, in this instance, it would not hurt Lord Rust's interests to hear what you have to say."

* * *

The Shades is not the brightest even in broad daylight. In the ebon depths of some of the narrower alleys, it is practically sepulchral.

It is in one of these parts, that three hooded figures confer with a fourth.

"Leave us alone! We do not hear you! We do not see you! We are not you!"

_You are being illogical, Mister Bro-_

"STOP CALLING US THAT! WE ARE NOT A _ME_!" The figure sobbed. "We are not a _me_. That is not our name. Not our name."

The hooded figures conferred silently for a moment.

_The… _we_ that is not of _us_… does not wish to be an _I_, then._

The man lifted his face to the three figures. Greasy hair ran in tangled strings, plastered to his forehead and shadowing eyes. Weeks of matted beard, equally full of grime, food scraps, and one rather bewildered newt[2] covered most of his face, and in places stuck to his equally filthy clothing.

"We… we do not know what we are, but we suffer.

_We can alleviate this entity's suffering. But this entity must do as we instruct._

To the man's tormented and squirming thoughts, this sounded like salvation. But the title they used did not sound… right. Even a _we_ could have a title, couldn't it?

"We will listen. But you must call us…" overly bright eyes widened, "yes, call us… Mister _Filth_."

* * *

[1] Which, in the mind of a man like Lord Rust, made him clearly inferior and no _true_ _gentleman_. It's rather interesting that the difference between Rust's definition of a complete and utter slackard layabout and a "true gentleman" is, in fact, less about how one spends one's day and more about whether one has a bank account while doing so.

[2] There's always room for a newt.


	23. An Embarrassment of Attorneys

**23. An Embarrassment of Attorneys**

Susan was still quietly seething as they left the Palace. Unfortunately, just when a few moments to catch her breath would have been helpful, she was about to receive a bit of kerosene thrown on the fire. This in the form of Cheery, who was waiting for them with a puzzled expression.

"Erm, Lady Sto Helit?"

Susan stiffened slightly. She was hearing that title far too frequently today, and each instance had been less pleasant than the last. "Yes."

"A runner came by from the clacks with a message for you." Cheery scratched her beard. "Only I don't see how he would know to deliver it to you at the palace."

Cheery held out a folded paper, which Susan took as if it were envenomed, and then began reading. Myria watched with concern as Susan's eyes, then jaw, and finally hand tightened, crumpling the paper in the process. "That poisonous little bastard."

"Sorry?" Cheery blurted at the same time Myria asked "What is the matter Susan?"

"I don't know how he did it, but I know he's responsible for this. He _must_ be."

"Susan, what is the matter?"

"The Council of Burghers of Sto Helit has sent word that they have several matters of extreme delicacy that have come up, and they need my personal intervention, in _person_, to resolve them. It seems members of the council have already come to blows over whatever the matter is, and the head of the council has done all he can to resolve the issue, but there's nothing for it but a personal appearance.

Cheery pushed her helmet back and scratched her forehead. "You mean… you have to actually _rule_? And this is a bad thing?"

Susan gave Cheery a look. It was uncanny, that look.

"Indeed. Rule. And _your_ damnable _ruler_ did this, to get me out from under foot. And by the looks of it, this has been brewing for some time. Oh he _will_ pay for this."

Cheery's eyes widened a little and she made pointed movements with them over Susan's shoulder, where upon turning Susan found the two Palace Guards standing with narrowed eyes, and no longer smiling.

"Hah." Susan turned and poked a finger at the air in front of them. "Tell me it's the first time anyone's ever cursed the Patrician's name within your earshot, and I'll call you a liar. Don't pretend to be dismayed! In my domain, prevaricators are put in detention. " She heard Cheery make a slight choking noise and added bitterly, "Don't worry sergeant, they wouldn't dare _detain_ me. It would cause an international _incident_." She gave an ugly little laugh, then sighed and deflated slightly. "Myria, I don't know what to do here. I can't just ignore this." Susan waved the wadded paper. "Well, I suppose I could, but Sto Helit could end up with some sort of stupid domestic unrest or worse, and then I would begin to feel guilty. And I despise feeling guilty."

"But of course, you must go."

"Yes. I must." Susan muttered to herself for a few moments. "But that leaves you wandering about the city by yourself trying to find an advocate, and me unable to serve as your peer representative if I am not back before the hearings."

"I see."

Cheery cleared her throat. "I'd be happy to escort Lady LeJean around the city."

"Susan wheeled on her. "Oh I'm very sure you _would_. I would wager that you even have orders to do so?"

"Susan!"

"Myria don't be obtuse. You don't actually imagine that the sergeant here has all the free time in the world to follow you around the city… by accident do you?" The only real question in Susan's mind was whether it was at the behest of Vetinari or Vimes. For that matter, how could she trust that Vimes wasn't following Vetinari's orders? How much of this was Vetinari's machinations? Susan found herself actually wondering if the Knäckes were in on it, and stopped that chain of thought right there. A person could go mad, trying to worm their way through what Vetinari was capable of. She shook her head. "Well?"

"Susan I must protest."

Cheery raised her hands. "No, it's alright. Lady Sto Helit is partly right. The commander didn't exactly _order_ me to keep an eye on you, but he made it sound like a really good idea." Cheery looked from Myria to Susan, "But I actually would enjoy it. Myria is… interesting to be around. Otherwise, I'd be stuck in the lab with Constable Igor, waiting for something to blow up in our faces, or up to my elbows in someone's entrails trying to figure out what killed them. This is a vacation by comparison."

Myria's brain took a moment, with sadistic glee, to paint a picture of what Cheery had just described for her to view. It was most disturbing. Entrails should be _inside_ and arms _outside_ of the body. She felt slightly ill.

"Myria?"

Myria shook herself, banishing the picture. "I will be alright, Susan. What could be safer than having a member of the watch as escort?"

Susan arched an eyebrow. "I can think of dozens of things, offhand, including juggling knives. But I suppose there's no help for it. Jonathon is not well enough to be about, and Jessica is needed at the bakery, no matter how she protests. That leaves you, constable. You will take care with her, I trust, or I will be very displeased.

"Yes ma'am, I mean Lady."

Susan sighed again, and took Myria by the arm to lead her several paces away. "Mind what you say around her. She may seem pleasant, but she _isn't_ your friend. Understand? She is just as likely to be reporting everything you back to Vimes as anything else.

"I do not believe that is her purpose, but I will follow your advice in this. Thank you Susan."

"Be good. Don't do anything… _unnatural_, especially around wizards. They are very… touchy when non-wizards practice things that look like magic." Susan raised her voice for Cheery's benefit. "Well I must be off on this fool's errand. First I have to tell Madame Frout that I shall need an indefinite number of days off."

Susan's mouth twitched. "I'm sure she will be crushed."

* * *

By mid-morning Cheery and Myria could tell it was not going to be a good day

First they went to the Guild of Lawyers to get a list of attorneys who specialized in privilege. Their first inkling that things were not right with the world was when the clerk, a sallow weasel-faced man, handed it over while muttering 'much good it'll do you'.

His words turned out to be prophetic. The first attorney informed them that he was unable to take on any new cases at this time.

The second was going on vacation.

The third was attending his grandfather's cousin's sister's funeral.

The fifth, upon hearing Myria's name, had them bundled out of his office, almost ejecting his own clerk in the process.

"I'm beginning to believe there may be a problem."

"You think? I'm beginning to get the urge to arrest the next attorney that I see."

"Arrest them? For what cause would you do so?"

Cheery thought for a second. "Resisting arrest."

Myria's brow furrowed. "I am not sure that is a valid cause. It would appear to create a circular logic conundrum."

"I don't care what kind of drum it is, it will make me feel better. And I suspect the commander would approve."

* * *

By lunchtime, they were back at the bakery, hungry and in a foul mood, with Jessica serving them. Myria filled Jessica in regarding the meeting with Vetinari.

The young girl whistled. "Vetinari sounds like he really got under Susan's skin. I would have paid money to see them in a real argument." She reconsidered. "Then again, I'm not sure I'd wanna be in the same city as them in that situation. I've seen what Susan can do with a poker."

"With a what?" Cheery looked intrigued. Jessica and Myria glanced at each other for a moment before Jessica responded.

"Just a dumb joke. So other than that, it sounds like you got some good info. Why don't you look happy? Is it because Susan got called away?"

"No, I understood why she had to leave. I am discontented because I have been unable to locate an attorney thus far. Each one we have contacted has seemed unwilling to represent my interests."

"Oh. Yeah I can see how that would cool the oven some. Never really had anything to do with attorneys myself, but da doesn't like them one bit. Say…" Jessica's eyes when up and left. "That reminds me of a joke I heard him tell. Do you know what they call a group of attorneys?"

"Is the correct answer 'a group of attorneys'?"

"No, a group of attorneys is called an 'embarrassment of attorneys'. Get it?" Jessica looked back and forth between Myria and Cheery. Cheery seemed to have something stuck in her throat, while Myria had her head tilted to one side and a thoughtful expression.

"No… I am afraid I do not understand."

It's like a 'school' of fish, or a 'murder of crows' right?" Jessica blew a stray hair from in front of her face and some of her smirk faded. "It's _supposed_ to be funny."

"But why is a group of fish called a school? Surely there is no similarity between a group of fish and Susan's classroom. And crows do not murder, they do not have the ethics to contemplate it, nor the means to carry it out. And why should one be embarrassed to-"

Jessica's hands lifted to her head, grabbed two handfuls of her own hair, and then slid them slowly over her face, dragging her cheeks down slightly in the process. "Never. Mind. Remind me to never tell you a joke again. Ever. Never."

"I am sorry."

"Stop apologizing, Myria, it's getting on my nerves, alright?"

"I am-"

"Arrrgghh!" Jessica growled through gritted teeth and stomped off, muttering.

"I do not believe I handled that well."

Cheery shrugged. "It wasn't a very funny joke."

"Then perhaps my response was appropriate?"

"I wouldn't go that far."

* * *

By midafternoon, Cheery was all for calling it a day. "Myria, I just don't think this is working. We must be doing something wrong."

"We have but one more name on the list. Surely we can at least determine what the cause is?"

"Fine. Last one, last hurrah."

**Titweal, Advocate At Law, JD, BTWBS, CYA** read the shingle. Upon entering the offices, they found it to consist of a very small and shabby waiting room with a young man seated behind a desk with a single door behind him.

"Excuse me sir, we are seeking the services of an advocate."

"Your n-n-n-n-" he swallowed, "name miss?"

Myria looked at Cheery, who looked back.

"Is it necessary that I tell you my name at this time?"

The man stopped, looking as if she had struck him in the forehead with a halfbrick. "Uh… I don't kn-n-n-n- know."

"Do you mind if I wait outside?" Cheery asked Myria, then added in a quieter voice "Listening to him try to answer questions makes my head hurt worse than Agi Hammerthief."

"Of course."

After a few more painfully delivered questions, Myria found herself in the back room of the office, sitting across the desk from a thin, pale man of advanced years who had wispy hair and a perpetual expression that said "I have seen hell, you are a sorry substitute."

The man's watery eyes took in Myria. "You are, no don't tell me, Lady Myria LeJean."

She took a deep breath. "Yes I am."

"Oh dear. I was afraid you would find your way here."

"Yes we are-"

"Looking for an advocate, to represent you. Would you like a biscuit?"

"No, thank you."

"They are quite good. I have to soak mine these days. Bad dentures." He opened his mouth to illustrate, showing yellowed and cracked false teeth.

"Mister Titweal, I have come because-"

"Because you are working your way down a list provided by the Guild of Lawyers, Attorneys, and Shysters. And you have been turned down by everyone up to me, and I am the last one on the list. And my dear, it is a shame that you are here, because I am afraid I am a very _bad_ attorney."

"But… this makes no sense."

"There's a reason I was the last one on your list. I can barely see to write a brief, you know." He pointed at his eyes. "And I can't even afford a decent journeyman these days." He yelled through the office door. "Ho Butters, where is my tea, you lazy lob?"

"ss bbb b b right the- the- there."

"See what I mean? He can barely read too. If he wasn't my sister's boy…"

"But you are our last hope!"

"Then your hope should consider hiding. Under the blanket. With a soft teddy." He thought for a second, and reddened. "The stuffed kind."

Myria sighed. "Regardless, we must have some representation. And you clearly need the custom."

"Wrong again, my dear. I'm afraid I would not touch your case if Jason and the Homogonauts were offering me the Golden Cheese to do it."

Myria's legs refused to remain seated for some reason, and propelled her to her feet as she threw her hands into the air. "I do not understand, why not?"

"Because if I do, being eaten alive by a monster from the seafloor and digested over the course of decades would _pale_ in comparison of what would happen to me." Titweal leaned in and murmured conspiratorially. "You do understand that you are facing Slant. Right? Been an attorney for centuries? Heads the guild? Has final say in what journeymen get what assignments? Can make or break an attorney's career with the flexing of a single moth-eaten finger? And, I may add, holds my retirement pension in his formaldehyde-stained hands."

Myria felt suddenly very light, and odd. "I… see. Yes. I begin to see." She sat down heavily. "This is incorrect. I must have an attorney to represent my rights. But because of who I face, there is no attorney who will represent me. How can I seek justice if there is none to be had?"

Titweal gave a short, humorless laugh. "See there's your first mistake. You're looking for justice among lawyers." He leaned closer. "This isn't about _justice_, it's about the law, and who does a better job digging up some bit of precedential manure so baffling that the judge confuses it with brilliance." Titweal leaned back with a sigh. "I used to be a genius with 'em. Once I got Vetinari to pardon a client by proving, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my client absolutely committed the crime, but that there were extenuating circumstances involving a live ferret and the Seamstresses Guild." He smiled and shook his head. "Good days, those were." Titweal looked suddenly startled. "Blast. Where is my tea? Butters!"

Myria felt something forming. An emotion. The situation was all so… frustrating. And… her eyes wanted to leak. And her lungs wanted to gasp. And she could feel her sinuses becoming slightly congested. She considered fighting it, telling the body to go peddle its chemically induced emotional reactions elsewhere.

And then she remembered something Jonathon had told her, only a few weeks ago… that maybe the stupid body knew what it was doing after all.

So she went with it. She had what some might have termed a "hissy cow," but with more woe and less rant. The judges gave her a grudging 8.9, and she found herself being consoled by an anxious Titweal trying to ply her with tea and biscuits, while he was being grilled by a very angry Cheery demanding to know what he had done to her.

"Nothing!" Titweal protested, then looked ashamed. "Well, I suppose that's the problem isn't it. Look, milady, will you stop sobbing? Look, I do know someone. But he's a bit of a fruitcake, understand. And on top of that… well, there again, maybe he'd be perfect for your purposes."

Myria found the hissy cow winding down, leaving her feeling puffy and with a bad case of the hiccoughs. Meanwhile, Cheery took full advantage of the situation, and got the name and address of the possible attorney before hustling her outside.

Once they were out of site of Titweal's office, Cheery gave her an appraising look. "That was impressive, Myria."

"I didn't not cause myself to cry by design." Cheery raised her eyebrows. "Well, perhaps I did, _encourage_ myself, somewhat. Have you never wept out of frustration?"

"No can't say that I have."

"Then what do you do when you are upset?"

"Let's just say it's usually someone else that ends up crying." Cheery patted her axe. "If they're still conscious, that is."


	24. Reductive Reasoning

24. Reductive Reasoning

It was less than an hour later that Myria and Cheery found themselves standing in front of a door midway down the block on Bitwash Street.

It wasn't an impressive door. Nowhere near as impressive as the doors they had passed on the way here, several of which definitely had the feel of 'dread portal' about them. This one had more the feel of a portal that was nearly dead itself. You could have slipped a ten-pence piece through the joinery, and it hung slightly askew in its opening. The impression was that the frame was the only thing keeping it from becoming some sort of odd street décor.

They would have been sure, in fact, that it simply _had_ to be the wrong address, if not for a small, brass plaque screwed to the rotting wood:

**Bodkins Hardlee's Reductive Legal Agency**

**No service too trivial!**

**Specializing in non-litigation matters.**

"This does appear to be the location that Mister Titweal described."

"And I thought his office was shabby." Cheery gave the wood a tap, causing portions of it to convert to sawdust and termite leavings. "If this is any indication of the condition inside, it's barely habitable. I'd want some shoring and propping just to set foot in the hallway."

"Regardless, we must do so."

With care, they opened the door which, as they feared, caused the bottom hinge to come free of the frame. Cheery did the best she could to brace it against the hallway wall, but it really was a lost cause.

The hallway itself was short and dingy, and lit by a single lamp. Peering at the doorless opening several feet in front of them, Cheery hazarded a greeting. "Um, hello?"

"Who is it?" wafted back, the tone somewhat nasal and tinged with suspicion.

Cheery and Myria consulted quietly, and reached an agreement. "Do we have to say?"

There was a long pause, which gave Myria the opportunity to sneeze at the dust in the air.

"That depends," the voice finally responded. "Do I owe you money?"

"No, Mister Hardlee I presume? I do not believe it possible that you would owe us money."

The tone became more jovial. "Then feel free to keep anything you wish secret, and do come in."

Passing through the opening, it wasn't really an office, as much as a travesty and violation of practically every workplace regulation imaginable. The single open area had a small desk, which from the look of the top had once been a butchers table or an executioner's block. There was a battered and tilting stool behind it, and a small wooden plaque proclaimed it _Receptionist_.

Further into the room, a second and larger desk appeared to be a reject from the Bank of Ankh Morpork. It was big, and heavy, and covered in leather that was worn through in spots and stained in others. Much like the man who sat behind the desk, smiling winningly at them.

"Good morning!" Bodkins Hardlee beamed. His small, slightly piggy eyes gleamed in the lamplight.

"I am afraid it is the afternoon." Myria scanned the room, noting the lack of windows, which explained the need for a lamp as well.

Hardlee deflated slightly, then recovered. "Really? Oh my. Well, regardless, how may I be of service?"

Myria frowned as she observed the man more closely. He was nearly as pale as she, though in more of a 'I don't know what the sun looks like' manner. And he was somewhat frumpy, both in body and dress. "I require legal assistance."

"Very good madam, very good. Then all that remains is for us to set up an appointment for you." His eyes strayed to the receptionist desk, and his fingers began a small alternating tapping movement. "Unfortunately, my receptionist is out to… lunch? Yes lunch. So I will have to schedule you in myself." He smiled again, exposing small, uneven teeth.

Cheery ran a copper's eye over the receptionist area. In particular, she evaluated the quarter-inch of dust covering the desk, the fact that two of the stool's three legs appeared to be held together by cobwebs, and the undisturbed grime on the floor around it. "Out to lunch you say? For how many years?"

"Sorry?"

"Never mind." Cheery scratched her beard. "Myria, I'm not sure this is going to work out either."

Myria closed her eyes and opened them. "Cheery, we have little other recourse," she sighed, "and you have now told him my name."

Cheery had the decency to look embarrassed, but the lawyer merely looked confused. "Myria, that's an unusual name, but worry not, I find nothing significant in it and frankly wouldn't care if I did."

Myria started slightly, "You are unaware of who I am?"

"Happily so!"

Myria turned to Cheery, perplexed, and received a shrug in response, then turned back. "Very well. Mister Hardlee, we would like to schedule an appointment to consult with you regarding a legal matter."

"Excellent. How about now?"

"I am sorry?"

"Well, you are here, and I am here. As they say in Genua, 'Lizzy le bomb-toms rollay.'" His smile managed to broaden even further.

"Trying too hard," Cheery muttered.

Myria spent several seconds processing both comments. "I am unaware that Genuans express themselves in this manner, Mister Hardlee. But as you say, I see no reason to defer our business. May we…" Myria wound down for a moment as she realized there were no chairs in front of his desk.

Hardlee looked crestfallen. "Ah, yes I'm afraid I'm a bit short on seating at the moment." His face darkened further. "Someone appears to have borrowed my chairs. I lock up every night, but from time to time things disappear."

"Might have something to do with the fact that the door is half hanging off its hinges." Cheery muttered.

"Marvelous! Exactly the kind of focused thinking I practice myself!"

"Really." This delivered in a tone so flat, you could have skipped stones off it.

"Absolutely. You see, most attorneys want to know _everything_ about their client. '_The more I know about your case, the better I can represent you,' _they say_._ _I_ find that to be utter rubbish. Dumping your entire life history and every piece of trivia about the matter at hand into my head? Bah, all that does is clog up the synapses with the intellectual equivalent of treacle. Tell me what is _important_, that's what I say. Focus on the critical bits and the rest will fall away like chaff!"

Cheery and Myria looked at each other for a moment. Cheery cleared her throat. "You know, Myria, now I think about it, Mister Hardlee may be the perfect man for the job."

"Excellent! Shall we discuss my fees?" He pulled out a battered notebook and began jotting down numbers. "Let's see. Ten dollars per hour for consultations." He flashed another smile, tapping the pen against his cheek. "Five for research. Preparing legal documents, Seven dollars fifty pence. Supplies and incidentals charged at cost, plus 10 percent." He rubbed his stubbled face and looked up hopefully. "All very reasonable, you see?"

"Yes, I do see. And how much for representation at a hearing?"

Hardlee's head jerked back as if struck, and his pale complexion went even lighter. "Ah, I'm afraid that would be impossible."

"I am sorry?"

"I don't do hearings. As stated clearly on my door. Which you should have read. _Non-litigation matters_. Won't set foot in a hearing."

Myria's head began to throb and felt like it was expanding. She imagined an inflating balloon would feel similar, could it feel anything.

Cheery, on the other hand, was livid. "This is ridiculous. What are you, some sort of _recluse_? Afraid to go out into public?"

Hardlee shot her a look that was hard to read. "A lot _you_ know. Look, if I were to set one foot at a hearing, _one foot_, it would doom your case right from the start, ok? Trust me on this. As much as I would love your business." Hardlee looked around his office sadly, rising from his chair, "I recommend you find someone else."

Myria felt like curling into a ball on the floor, and leaned against the wall for support instead. Unfortunately that knocked several slats loose. "Mister Hardlee, there _is_ no one else. We went through the list provided by the guild. Mister Titweal sent us here!"

Hardlee shook his head. "Well obviously that-" He chewed his lip. Wait… did you say that _Titweal_ sent you here?"

"That is correct."

"_Madman_ Titweal… sent _you_. _Here_. Named me by name."

"I am unaware of his familiar name, but yes he claimed you would be the perfect person to represent us."

Hardlee sat down with an exhalation, almost breaking the chair in the process. "Well. Well well well. Well."

Myria could see that he was considering something. His eyes zipped back and forth like a predator following a prey made out of springs and rubber, occasionally drifting to the upper left. Finally he nodded once, sharply.

"I'll take the case."

"But you said-"

"Reductive reasoning. Madman Titweal was a _genius_ before the bar, and he knows all about my particular… issues. If he says I'm your best hope, then it's clearly true. Ergo, I'm representing you."

Cheery shook her head. "I think you're barmier than he was."

"Very likely, but I have more reason to be. Oh, and my rates just doubled. I'm greedy too."

"Very well, Mister Hardlee. And therefore your rate for hearings?"

"Let's demolish that bridge when we come to it, shall we?" He stood again, patting his stomach. "Shall we go have something to eat? I'm famished."

Hardlee took great care in placing the door back in the frame as they left, and as they walked toward Cunning Artificers, Myria observed that his manner was quite odd. For one thing, he wore a heavy leather cloak and kept the hood drawn over his head. For another, he kept to the shadows as much as possible. Upon finding what he considered a suitable dining establishment, he chose the darkest corner he could.

She began to wonder if he might be some sort of odd undead. She had not yet encountered one of these, and thought it might be interesting.

As they perused the menu, which dispelled some of her hypotheses, Hardlee looked slightly embarrassed. "Ah, you know, a happy side effect of discussing this over dinner is, the meal falls under 'incidentals.' I don't suppose you could front a small retainer? I find myself a bit short." He heard a low growl from the direction of the dwarf and added quickly, "No offense meant."

"Mister Hardlee," Myria asked, "do you suffer some sort of allergy to bright light?"

"What? Oh. Hah! Brilliant reasoning! But in this case, horribly flawed due to insufficient information. No not at all."

"Then why-"

"Not important at this juncture, or so I believe. All in good time. " And they got no more out of him until the ordering was done and the eating completed.

Finally, filled past capacity, he burped loudly and turned to Myria. "So, tell me what this hearing is about."

"It is very complicated, Mister Hardlee. You observe that-"

"Ah! Tut tut! Remember my philosophy! I want to know the _bare minimum_ _required_. If I feel I am missing something, I'll ask for it. So, please, answer the question I asked, not the one you believe I would have asked if I already knew everything." He frowned. "That didn't come out quite right."

"I see. Very well. Mister Hardlee, I brought a large quantity of gold into the city, and a hu- _another person_ claims that it is his. But-"

Hardlee held up his hand to stop her, then rubbed his cheek and considered for a minute. "So the gold is not in either of your possession, since that truly is nine-tenthsof the law in these cases. And the hearing is before a magistrate, then."

"No, the hearing is before a tribunal of peers."

Hardlee's face lit up. "Ah, you are both peers then. Which one of you invoked the Doctrine of Lord Periwinkle?"

Myria found herself impressed. The man was beginning to seem actually proficient rather than simply odd, despite the condition of his office. "I did, Mister Hardlee, on the advisement of a friend."

"Well done indeed! Can't abide the magistrates." His face darkened, then cleared. "Very interesting. What _was_ Titweal thinking?" he mumbled to himself, then shook his head. "Regardless, the gold is currently in the possession of, I assume, Lord Vetinari?"

"No. The Commander of the Watch has it in his custody, as evidence of a crime."

He waggled his hand. "Same thing, then."

Cheery almost fell out of her chair at that. "What? No it isn't!"

"Oh?" Hardlee's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "You are telling me that if the _Patrician_ sent a letter, with his own seal, instructing the Commander of the Watch to turn over a chest of gold to this rather pleasant lady (or the scoundrel opposing you) that he wouldn't do it? No?" He took on a smug expression. "As I said, clearly, the gold is in the Patrician's custody. Deductive reasoning!"

Cheery harrumphed into her beard, and waved for a refill of her drink.

"Now, as we were saying, the Patricians has the gold, but doesn't want the responsibility for assigning its ownership. Good news bad news. What's your claim?"

"That the gold is mine, of course."

"Of course. And what is your basis? Do you have a receipt? Witnesses who saw you bring it into the city?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Slightly more difficult. And how did the Commander take possession of it?"

Myria felt her body tense, an odd squirming sensation in her internals. "_Persons_ attempted to steal it from the residence I was leasing, and my… friend, another friend, informed the Watch of the gold's presence in the structure."

Hardlee toyed with his fork. "And the house belongs to, don't tell me, your arch nemesis in this dispute."

"I am unsure whether those are the correct words, but yes it is the same person."

"Excellent. Well, this is simple. It would be preposterous to imagine that a landlord would leave gold lying around his premises if he is leasing it out to someone. Ergo, obviously any gold recovered from the location is yours." He looked proud of himself.

"But Mister Hardlee-"

"Now now, let's not overcomplicate things, I'm sure the opposing counsel will do that for us." He frowned, "Which brings me to the real problem we face. And I'm not sure how Titweal thinks we will overcome this one."

Myria was bewildered. "And what is this problem? How can it more real than the one I have described?"

"The problem, madam, is that I am anathema to the legal profession. Blackballed. A pimple on the arse of the guild. That's the reason you find me brought so low."

Cheery interjected, "I knew it, you aren't a real attorney are you?"

"Oh I understand your cynicism, really I do. But I assure you I am. Took all the classes and passed with perfect scores. Completed my journeymanship with Titweal himself. And then I committed the ultimate sin."

"You lost an important case?"

"Worse! I took one," he lowered his voice, "_pro bono publico_."

Cheery was still rolling the words over in her head, when Myria translated for her. "You represented someone without charging a fee? How is it justifiable to, as you say, shun a person for this?"

"Obviously you don't know much about attorneys."

"This is probable. But how does this affect our case? It appears that you are, in fact, a very capable attorney."

"Ah, and there's the rub. They couldn't kick me out of the guild, you see. I haven't made any other procedural errors. Perfect record. So they did the next best thing. My next client was informed that, were he to continue to retain my services, the guild would place the entire staff at the disposal of the opposing side. All of them. There went that client, off to find another attorney."

"And the next one."

"And the next one."

"So you see, now the only way I can get work is if no one knows the client is using me in particular. Otherwise, they run screaming from the room."

"I see. I believe I can sympathize, Mister Hardlee."

"So you see the problem. The moment I step foot in the room, you will be facing, not whatever shyster the opposing side has been able to wrangle, but the best minds of the guild. In fact, if things look like we might actually win, they could bring out the dark lord himself."

"The 'dark lord'?

Hardlee leaned forward, a trickle of perspiration running down his forehead. The lighting struck his glasses just so, refracting and causing his eyes to glow slightly. Hoarsely, he whispered the hated word, the name of the man who had personally made it his goal in the unlife to destroy the career of one Bodkins Hardlee.

_"Slant."_

Myria sat back, struggling for how to respond, but thankfully it was Cheery that answered for her.

"Well _that's_ all settled then, because Slant is the bastard we're facing already."

Myria watched, transfixed, as Hardlee's round, slightly piggy face and slouching demeanor morphed before her very eyes into something… else. Something that, below pounds of soft, mushy flesh, contained a core of solid iron which was, over the course of these few seconds, forging itself into a razor-sharp weapon of revenge. The heat of that fire shown through his eyes as a smile crept across his face, threatening, she feared, to split his head in two.

"Oh…" he breathed, the breath of an artist about to begin a blank canvas. "Oh _this_ is going to be _fun_."

_I believe_, Myria mused to herself, _that I would not wish to be Mister Slant in the coming days_.


	25. A Game Afoot

**25 A Game Afoot**

"Oh this does promise to be entertaining." The Lady smiled gently, her glowing green eyes somehow betraying how very amused she was.

Fate on the other hand, affected boredom. "I find it tiresome." He waved a flaccid hand, taking in The Shyster, newly placed on the board. "How…" a pointed look at The Lady, "_fortunate_, that the Grey Lady was able to find the _one_ advocate, in a city simply filthy with the unwilling, the _only_ one who would not only challenge Old Moldy, but would actually relish the battle."

He bent slightly, seeming to examine the portly and somewhat frumpy figure in detail where it sat next to the Grey Lady. Tapping a finger against his mouth, he sighed and straightened. "But I am afraid that _fate_ is working against him."

The Lady raised her eyebrows. "Oh? So you feel the tide is turning in your favor?"

"You believe it is not? Did I not insist that The Governess be removed from the game?"

"Hmmm… and you perceive that you found sufficient agreement among our brethren, though I disagreed. And still do."

"My arguments were sound. Her existence as a part time anthropomorphic personification made her against the rules.[1]"

Anoia spoke up from the side. "Did anyone happen to see whether… she took… The Poker with her? Or is it stuck in a corner somewhere?"[2]

There was a collective shudder among the gods surrounding the Game Table.

The Lady cleared her throat, and dragged the conversation back on topic. "Very well. Since you have, as you say, maneuvered The Governess from The Game, will you likewise attempt the removal of The Tyrant for similar reasons?"

Fate looked carefully at the lean figure standing in the corner of the board. There were a few mutters from around the table.[3]

"No..." Fate began doubtfully, "He may be required as a counter to those interfering Auditors."

A voice in the back of the throng piped up "Hey, wonder what would happen if you gave The Poker to The Tyrant?"

There was another collective shudder, and a couple of the lesser gods began praying to themselves.

Fate glared at the unseen speaker. "_No._ Next thing you know he'd be knocking on the gate to join us at the table."[4]

The Lady shook her head, and tried to change the subject. "And the Grey Lady?"

"I advocated as much, I admit, earlier in The Game. But now, she becomes less formidable by the day." Fate's mouth turned into a sneer. "And there _are_ options should she continue to be problematic."

* * *

"As fun as it all sounds, I still don't see why _we_ need a representative at a hearing about gold." Archchancellor Ridcully waved his hand. "Nothing _against_ gold, mind you. But generally the university is less concerned with such mundane things as discly wealth."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Which is, I am sure, why you eschew such discly things as taxes as well."

Ridcully laughed, "That almost sounded an accusation, _Havelock_."

The other eyebrow went up to join the first. "Perish the thought, _Mustrum_."

Watching the two of them, masters of their respective domains, banter back and forth was like watching a tsunami rolling across the deep sea. There didn't appear to be much going on at the surface, but if it hit a serious obstacle, absolute mayhem would result.

Finally Ridcully laughed and slapped Vetinari's desk. "Right then. Things were getting boring for Mister Stibbons anyway." He shook his head. "I'll never understand how he manages not to die of it with all that paperwork 'n such that he seems to love so much. I'm sure he can be persuaded to volunteer for something unique."[5]

Vetinari's fingers did a quick pattern on the desk. "Don't you think that a wizard with a bit more… tenure… would be advisable for such an _august_ panel? After all, the other two will likely be ranking peers. We must consider appearances as well."

"Hmm… d'ya think so?" Ridcully appeared lost in thought, then smiled. "You know, you're right. Stibbons would be the absolute worst choice for this. Yes, I'll just have to consider someone else. Someone with tenure it is!"

"Excellent. I knew you would understand."

_Oh I do, Havelock. And I have just the wizard for the job._

* * *

"As I was saying, all you have to do is sit and listen. I'm sure whatever congenital idiots are chosen for the other two seats will ask all the questions needed. No don't shake your head yet, let me finish. And Havelock specifically asked for a Wizard with tenure and presence. You're _perfect_ for the task. Stop looking at me like that."

There was a pause.

"I _am_ the Archchancellor, y'know. I could _order_ you to do it."

There was a longer silence. One could call it pregnant. With triplets. "Stop looking at me like that. I could you know."

Another long silence. Quintuplets at least.

"Fine, I'll double your banana allowance."

"Ook."

"And you can throw the peels at Slant."

"Ook!"

"That's the spirit!"[6]

* * *

[1] Susan Sto Helit, being the Daughter of Death's adopted daughter, has been asked to fill in from time to time. She updated the traditional outfit a bit, but hasn't publicized it much out of fear the male suicide rate might increase dramatically. Girls with scythes are hot.

[2] Anoia was the Goddess of Things That Get Stuck in Drawers, but she was thinking of branching out.

[3] The Tyrant was one of the odder pieces. It always seemed to end up in the corner of the board, no matter where they tried to put it. And it never seemed to _do_ anything, but they felt sure it was somehow involved in _everything_, so they mostly left it alone.

[4] Which is of course preposterous. Like he would knock on the gate. More likely they'd wake up the next morning to find him in charge and hiring staff.

[5] In fact, Stibbons was currently holding down seven full time positions at the University, and complained constantly that he was the only one doing any work. Ridcully reasoned that since he kept doing it all anyway, it must mean he actually was enjoying himself. Managers the universe over have made a similar mistake, which usually ends up with someone's office equipment being surgically removed from their supervisor's orifice(s).

[6] Demand not that wizards meddle in affairs of state, for they are subtle and prone to take revenge in a most dramatic manner. (Ook! Ook!)


	26. There's a Killer on the Road

**26 There's a Killer on the Road**

Flasher sat on a stoop in the Shades, downing a warm and sour beer in the dusk.

He was angry. More than angry, he was livid.

For one thing, LeJean was still breathing and walking the Disc.

For another, it didn't look like changing that circumstance was going to be easy. The _one good chance_ he'd had so far, when she'd left the bakery in a hurry with that nobby looking woman. He'd started to follow, looking for a likely spot. But they'd been headed in the direction of the brass bridge. Too open there. And then there'd been that kneebiter of a watchman come hurrying up. Like they _knew_. And now the blasted half-pint was going everywhere with LeJean, and the Sammy[1] kept looking around. Too damned observant that one.

He had to find some way of getting in close, of distracting the dwarf. One clean shot, that was all he needed. A throw was too risky. He wanted a sure thing.

He wanted to see her eyes when the life went out of them.

A throat cleared behind him, and he raised his head from the pint where he'd ben drowning his anger.

"Buggroff," he snarled at the… well it didn't quite look like a gnoll. _Street bum_, he decided. "You look like garbage."

The man giggled a bit and his eyes widened. "We do, it is true." He lowered his voice. "We are interested in assisting you with a certain matter."

Flasher's eyes darted left and right, hand straying toward his pocket. "Who is _we_?

"We are."

"We who?"

He seemed to struggle with this one for a moment, then grinned. "We who are here!"[2]

Flasher's already ugly mood darkened further. "Don't like riddles, best of times. And now ain't them. You trying to take the piss with me, trashman?"

The walking garbage heap giggled. "We have already taken the piss, it was in the alley, and you were not present." He started to cackle and then stopped. He'd not even seen Flasher move, and suddenly he could feel a very… unpleasant and pointy sensation at his throat. It came from something metal being held in a hand that was attached to Flasher's arm.

"Tell me why," Flasher gave a little nudge for emphasis. "I should not cut yer throat." Then he discovered, due to the proximity and a change in wind, the smell. "Gah you ain't half disgusting."

Mister Filth swallowed. "Yes we are disgusting. But you should not damage our body. Because... because, we can help you end the one named LeJean."

The knife didn't move, but it didn't go away either. Flasher gagged down the odor and moved a bit closer. "Now I really should kill you," he hissed. "Who have you been talking to?"

Filth couldn't help it. He started cackling, even though it caused the blade to scratch his throat. "Ha. Hahah. Who have we been talking to? Who?! HAHAHAA!"

Flasher shook his head, pulled the blade away before trashman could cut his _own_ throat on it, and backhanded him across the face. "Enough u' that." Mister Filth, eyes watering, quieted down, though his eyeballs rolled around a bit. "Geez. You're balmy ain'tcher." He poked Filth in the forehead. "Now keep it zipped, or I'll cut you a new mouthhole further down. Got it, trashman?"

Filth nodded.

"Now, who have you been talking to, and what makes you think I have any interest in that lady you mentioned?"

Filth managed to stifle a giggle, then became more serious. He leaned in, breath reeking, and whispered hoarsely. "We have been instructed, that we have mutual interests who have reason to want the LeJean to cease functioning."

"You said that. I want to know _who_."

"You would not know them if I told you." Filth shuddered. "LeJean must die. If you do not accept our assistance, we shall have to seek other-"

Flasher shook his head. "Nah nah. That ain't how it works. If _I_ don't 'cept yer 'sistance, you'll be dead, see?" He thought for a few moments. "What do you know about LeJean then?"

"More than you could imagine." Greasy fingers tangled in a filthy beard. "She has… weaknesses. And we believe we can get close to her."

Flasher thought for a minute. "Hmm. Well then, looks like we have a deal."

Filth looked relieved, then Flasher continued.

"The deal is, you tell me what you know _now_, and how you can help, and I'll decide afterward whether to gut you. How's that?"

At this point, a spit in the palm and a handshake was standard practice. Mister Filth threw up on Flasher's shoes instead.[3]

"Fair 'nuff."

* * *

[1] Sam Vimes reputation had become so pervasive that watchmen across the Sto Plains who had trained in Ankh Morpork were gaining the nickname "Sammies".

[2] Any second now, a passerby is going to mumble "_and what's on second_" and get gutted for his troubles. And don't even ask about third base… Flasher has no damn sense of humor at all.

[3] Honestly, it wasn't that bad. It's not like Mister Filth had been eating anything since… well forever…


	27. Choosing Names

**27 Choosing Names**

The next few days were a frustrating mixture of relief and maddening anticipation for Myria. On the one hand, she appeared to have an actual advocate, which had at one point seemed impossibility. And she had been able to repay the Knäcke's previous loan of $500 and her advocate's retainer, now that she had a letter of credit from the bank.

On the other hand, Susan had send her a clacks telling her that it was going to require days and perhaps weeks to undo the 'klatchian knot' that Vetinari had instigated, she was sure, in Sto Helit.[1] As a result, she still wasn't sure she could be relied upon to serve as Myria's panel choice. When Myria contacted Mister Hardlee regarding this concern, he had responded dismissively.

"We still have over a week before the panel can convene. That's the rules. There are at least fifteen things that _will_ go disastrously wrong without worrying about whether this _might_ go wrong."

She did not find that reassuring.

The only reason she was able to cope with what she was identifying as 'stress' of the situation was because Jonathon was clearly improving daily and Jessica was, by now, back to her former bubbly self. In point of fact, Jonathon was now able to take short walks without serious pain, and was spending several hours a day sitting in the bakery chatting with Myria and his family as they worked.

The only real smudge on the proverbial picture was that both she and Jonathon noted his uncle's disapproval at the slightest interaction between them, and the glower deepened by the day.

* * *

"Lord Rust, it has been several days, and you have not yet notified me of your choice for the panel of peers."

Rust waved his hand dismissively. "I fail to see the need. You have already confirmed that _that woman_ has been unable to obtain an advocate for the hearing." He gave a small, smug smile. "I understood that without an advocate, the decision defaults to my claim. The gold is as good as in my possession."

Slant coughed, ejecting a moth and two earwigs in the process. He chose his next words carefully. The client, no matter how incorrect, is always right[2]. "Your grasp of the legal aspects is inexpressible as always, my lord. Be that as it may, precedent requires that a panel issue the recommendation, even a default one, to the Patrician. Without a representative, on the panel, you would be at a severe disadvantage."

Rust's smile had faded, and his eyes began to glaze over as Slant, in his mind, babbled on. "A gentleman doesn't concern himself with minutiae. Just get to the point."

If he had still needed to breathe, at this point Slant would have heaved a sigh that would have made the wind through the trees look pathetic. As it was, he merely closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them.

"My lord, if you do not choose a representative, then you lose the hearing."

"Why didn't you say that in the first place, Slant? Bah, then get Lord Selachii. He's always reliable." Rust removed his monocle and polished it, the matter fully resolved in his view. "By the way, have you any idea who _she_ will pick?"

"I had expected she would request the Duchess of Sto Helit, though we would of course have objected on the grounds she is not _Ankh Morpork_ nobility."

"A pity she has no _true_ nobility to draw upon in her hour of need. Sto Helit." His lip curled slightly. "A glorified cabbage-exchange with pretensions of grandeur. Just as well then." He thought for a moment.[3] "What happens if they do not name someone?"

"As I mentioned previously, then the two remaining panel members would make the recommendation."

"Excellent. There should be no concern then. They are unlikely to obtain a panel representative, and they can not find an advocate. Any rumors who Vetinari will choose as the city's choice?"

"Apparently he has…" Slant shuddered "bent the rules somewhat and requested a tenured staff member of Unseen University for that position. I cannot say that I approve of his decision. There are some grounds for filing a protest."

"Bah, it doesn't matter. Wizards are more interested in the next meal than more… mundane matters such as this. I'm sure he'll agree to whatever Lord Selachii recommends."

"Your confidence in the absence of verisimilitude is of epic proportions, Lord Rust."

"Thank you. Now go, earn some of that outrageous retainer that I pay you."

* * *

"Do you know, Sam, we received a clacks today from Sto Helit?"

Sam Vimes paused, fork halfway to his mouth, but kept his gaze fixed firmly on his plate. "Really."

Sybil sighed. "You're doing it again. You know it's perfectly natural. And you insisted you agreed with my decision not to use a wet nurse."

Vimes bit his cheek and put his fork down. "Yes d-"

"Don't 'yes dear' _me_, Sam Vimes." Her voice went up a few decibels. "You-" There was a squeaking noise from torso level, and Sybil Ramkin-Vimes visibly calmed herself. "Sam, it's part of the wonder of life."

Sam rubbed his face. She was right. And he should just be glad that, after a very difficult childbirth, she had recovered quickly enough to even manage it. But as a first-time father, he was fascinated by his son's unerring ability to choose the most embarrassing times to demand a meal, and afraid he'd make some sort of social stumble by even noticing. So he tried looking everywhere else other than… where business was being conducted at the moment.[4]

He cleared his throat and very pointedly looked his wife carefully in the face, trying to mentally blur out everything going on below chin level.[5]

"You were saying something about a clacks from Sto Helit?" Vimes changed the subject, then paused as the words worked their way back through his own ears, past the sound of young Sam adding body mass.

He remembered hearing somewhere that the kids these days were reading[6] these things called 'musings'. De Worde had started including them in the back of his news paper. Vimes had, out of morbid curiosity and assuming it was the one part of The Times that wouldn't upset him, perused it for himself.

The 'musings' seemed to consist of three or four frames of poorly drawn figures acting out some scene. Usually it involved a kid pulling one over on adults, or talking animals pulling one over on each other.

One in particular had caught his eye. _The Amazing Hedgyhogg_ was the story of a talking hedgehog, who went around stopping miscreants by rolling into a ball and barreling into them. It was created by someone named N. Ogg and contained, he felt, several references that could be interpreted on the 'riskay' side.

But the thing that had really caught Vimes' attention about this particular character was that when danger threatened, Hedgy would feel a tingling sensation in his spines, warning him. He could imagine how that felt at this moment. His spine was tingling all to blazes.

"Wait. Let me guess. It was from the Duchess of Sto Helit."

"How did you know?"

"A little hedgehog told me."

"Sam, you really do say the most adorable things."

"I won't in a minute. What did she want?"

"She seemed to imply you owed her a favor, and mentioned something about needing a peer to sit on hearing panel."

"The LeJean hearing. Hah." He picked his fork back up and mulled it over as he chewed. "As much as I sympathize with LeJean, what makes her think I have the time, or would want, to spend hours listening to Slant drone on?"

Sybil smiled. "Oh I agree, you are far too busy for that Sam. Besides, she was actually asking me. It all sounds rather intriguing."

Fork back down. "Absolutely not."

"Sam."

"You aren't well enough."

"To what? Sit behind a table? And keep your voice down."

Vimes flailed around mentally. "The dragons need you."

"You know very well the gels have been tending to all that for months now."[7]

He gestured at his son, comfortably nestled in acres of bosom, forgetting to be embarrassed at all. "What about young Sam's schedule?"

"I'm sure we can work around that, or just work with it."

"Work with it? You mean have Sam in the room with you?" Vimes jerked his head, trying to keep his voice low. "_No_. He might… he might end up having to listen to one of _Slant's_ adventures in twisted logic. Who knows what that would do to the brain of my only male offspring. He might end up becoming a lawyer." He shuddered. "I don't want him within-"

"Sshhh." Sybil made cooing sounds and rearranged the baby before continuing. "Sam, you're being unreasonable. Besides, it's my civic duty, and it sounds like jolly good fun."

Vimes buried his face in his hands. Once Sybil pulled out words like "obligation" "duty" and "wouldn't it be jolly fun" he knew he was doomed.

* * *

"Jonathon, I should obtain alternate lodgings."

Jonathon was propped up in his bed, trying to find a comfortable position. His chest still ached fiercely by the end of the day, but he was tired of lying flat for hours at a time. He patted Myria's hand sympathetically.

"It's my uncle isn't it?"

Myria nodded. "Yes. In part." She smiled slightly as she continued. "It is also because every morning I awaken with insufficient circulatory fluid in one or more limbs. Jessica utilizes an entire bed, regardless of her intentions each evening. I am finding it uncomfortable and I feel…" she considered various word choices, "constrained and unable to rest properly."

"I've noticed. What you are suffering from, Myria, is a lack of space to call your own." He squeezed her hand slightly, and she decided it was a nice feeling. "But you can't go back to the house on Kings Way. Isn't place still a disaster?"

"That is correct. And the owner's representative has made it clear that I am unwelcome there until I have paid for the repairs, and my advocate has said that I should not do so until after the hearing has begun." She chewed on her lip, realized she was doing it, and stopped. "I have made arrangements to return to the lodgings I had used prior to that.

"La Extravaganzia."

It had been a difficult decision for her. On the one hand, there was some comfort in the familiarity of the location and that seemed important. She had considered a new hotel, but the unknown aspects of it were daunting. On the other hand, there were also a few unpleasant memories associated with it. Like her former nightmares and what she had been trying to accomplish at the time. In the end, she had opted for it, and mitigated some of the bad memories by requesting a suite as different from the prior one as possible.

"Yes. It is merely across the river, and Cheery has said she will escort me to and from each day. I will stay there while I seek other lodgings."

"I guess it's for the best, at least for now. But I'm going to miss seeing you flopping around on the floor in the mornings," he laughed.

"Jonathon!"

"Well, it _is_ kind of cute." He sobered. "I'm sorry about my uncle. I've tried talking to him, but he just gets more upset and says he's trying."

"I understand. It is not rational; it is an emotion thing. I believe that perhaps, if I am absent for portions of the day, it will reduce his anger."

They both sat quietly for a few moments, and Jonathon noted the bag just outside his doorway. "So you are sleeping there starting tonight?"

"Yes. Cheery is downstairs."

Jonathon reached up and caressed her cheek gently. "I really will miss you. It was comfortable, knowing you were just a room away."

Myria felt a weight on her chest. "Yes. This is difficult for me. It feels almost painful." She analyzed the feeling and realized, with a start, that it was similar to how she had felt, when she first became human and tried to discorporate and return to the other Auditors. That slight tearing sensation, a resistance.

"Don't worry, it's just a hiccup. We've gone through worse." Jonathon smiled ruefully, it was infectious. Myria felt her own mouth turning up at the same time as her eyes started to sting

"Yes. We have. How can I feel both happy and sad at the same time? And my eyes are leaking again."

There was a slight sound from the doorway, followed by a snort. "It's because you love him, you goof."

Myria and Jonathon gasped and turned to see Jessica standing there, looking both mischievous and sad at the same time. "Jessie," Jonathon warned.

She smirked a little, but her voice cracked when she continued. "You love him, Myria. Deal with it."

Myria shook her head. "What if you are wrong? Emotions are difficult to quantify. I have nothing to compare to."

Jonathon, however, tried halfheartedly to stop the conversation right there. "_Jessie_, that's enough."

"Oh _can it_, cousin. You two are going to dance around this for weeks if I don't give you a push. Seriously, _you're_ no better at this than she is. And Myria, trust me, I'm sure. You've got all the classic signs. Face lights up when you see him. Want to spend every waking minute together. You even laugh at his jokes, even when you don't get them." Jessica laughed. "You're not fooling anyone with that, by the way, but bravo on the attempt." She pointed an accusing finger at her cousin. "And he's doing the same thing."

"I swear, Jessie, I'll-"

"What are you going to do? Gimp your way over here and tackle me? Look, you guys sleep on it." She made a face. "Separately, please. Can't have you corrupting the innocence of my youth. And I'll expect a report on the results tomorrow." She walked over, dangerously within range of Jonathon, and gave Myria a hug. "I'm going to miss having you around all the time too, Myria, even if you do make a crappy pillow." She pulled back, then bounced out of the room. "Stop being buttheads!"

Jonathon just stared at the doorway for a few more seconds. "I'm gonna kill her." He collapsed back against his pillows. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow, when I can catch her."

"Jonathon."

"Fine, maybe I'll wait a week on killing her. Let's just… sleep on it, ok?" There was another one of those moments, and they made use of it.

The kiss was nice. It had some 'good night' in it, a dash of 'goodbye for now', and thankfully some 'see you tomorrow' as well.

And, just for kicks, perhaps a few unspoken promises as well.

* * *

Flasher scowled at his partner in crime. "I'm getting tired of waiting. Trashman says we've got everything we need. _You_ said you can put the thing in motion. Why is that nob still breathing?"

Jolly wobbled his head and spread his hands out in front of him. "Look, you asked me to help out with this, make sure there weren't no fingers pointin' back at us. And that's the part I been working on. The part that trashman gave you, that part's easy." He held up a flabby hand, stopping Flasher's objection. "It _was_ easy, but it only works if we get her away from that damn baker. That was the problem."

Flasher scowled. "So you got any ideas in that fat head on how to go about that part?"

"This fat head's making sure yours stays on your shoulders." Jolly laughed, louder than necessary.[8] "And, just so you know, our luck just changed. The nob checked into a hotel this evening. All's we gotta do now, is find the right time."

* * *

[1] Those were not Susan's actual words. Her actual words included things like "camel excrement", "dishes best served cold", and "absolute bastard". But Myria was learning to paraphrase.

[2] The amount of right that the client is, is directly proportional to the expected size of the invoice to be submitted times the percent likelihood of said invoice being paid. In this case, Lord Rust was _extremely_ incorrectly right.

[3] Feel free to applaud him for the feat.

[4] New fathers are just hopeless goofs.

[5] Which was, frankly, impossible. The word "ample" didn't even begin to address the situation. Ramkin women were physically built, through generations of natural selection, for producing strong offspring. Philosophically, they had selected for bulldozing their way through anything embarrassing. The combination made them quite formidable.

[6] Or in the case of 8 year old Kevin "Bruiser" McGivvens, threatening to clobber one of the smarter kids until they read it to him.

[7] That was actually the first time Vimes had seen his stalwart wife near tears during the pregnancy. It was only after Dr. Lawn expressed a firm concern that exposure to dragon flatulence might be bad for the baby's development that Sybil reluctantly handed the reins, _temporarily_, of the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons over to the various young lady volunteers that seemed to gravitate to such things.

[8] Picture someone built like a roundworld Santa Claus, but younger and more homicidal. Jolly got his nickname in part because of his appearance and laugh, because he found other people's blood very very amusing.


	28. Better Friends Than Enemies

**28 Better Friends Than Enemies**

Three days later, Myria was beginning to settle into routine. The first day she had felt uncomfortable flashbacks from the early days of her existence when she had traveled daily from the hotel to Clockson's shop on Cunning Artificers, but the feeling passed more quickly than she had feared, and the nightmares she had also anticipated didn't surface. Instead, she felt… content. She was no longer faced with Jonathon's uncle's displeasure through the entire day. She had her own bed and the room had sufficient surfaces and storage locations for her possessions.[1]

And she had a routine. She found that this was important as well. Each morning, she awoke and ate some waferbread and drank a small amount of water. Chose from among her limited wardrobe, and sat in the hotel lobby, watching human… other humans, as they conducted their own affairs, until Cheery arrived to escort her to the bakery.

There, she would change into a rather plain outfit that Jessica had obtained for her, and help with the noontime rush. It was enlightening, for her, to see how she was treated differently based on how she was dressed. Several times, she would see people from the hotel lobby later at the bakery, and while they might have shown respect or deference at the hotel, when they saw her at the bakery it was as if she were a completely different person. Most of the time, they didn't even notice her. Bustling about the bakery in her rough clothes, she become just another worker, providing for their needs.

It was thought provoking.

_The person inside stays the same, but they are perceived differently based on their appearance, and the surroundings._ She found herself following this train of thought further.

"Jessica, I have discovered something."

Jessica put on a dramatic face, and pivoted around staring into corners. "What?! Here? In the bakery? Ohmigosh!"

Unfortunately, it flew right over Myria's head. "Yes. It is this, that the way others perceive you can influence how you perceive yourself. Is that correct? That they can change who you are?"

Jessica's amusement fled, and she looked thoughtful. "Yeahhh… I guess it depends on how much you care." Her expression turned sour. "And whether you like yourself in the first place."

"So some people will reject the influence?"

"Hah. That's a funny way of putting it."

They both started slightly as Jonathon joined them. "What are you two conspiring about now?"

Jessica grinned at him. "Oh nothing. Myria was just discovering peer pressure."

"Oh greaatt," Jonathon drawled.

"Peer pressure. Influence exerted by ones equals?"

Jessica thought. "_Something_ like that. I guess it's not just that, though. You also get pressure from nobs," she winked at Myria, "no offence, and from family." That got a dark look from Jonathon.

"And how do people respond to this?"

"Well, some people just ignore it. Like me." Jonathon snorted, and Jessica popped him with a rag. "Then there's Jonathon, who is susceptible to all sorts of evil influences due to a basic weakness of will."

"Hey!"

"Then there's ones like my friend," she backtracked at a look from Jonathon, "my _ex_-friend Billy Woolsey, who rebel against it and actually go out to do the exact opposite of what everyone one wants them to do."

Myria thought for a few seconds. "But, that does not seem logical. Is not that just as bad as doing what everyone wants them to do? They are still being controlled by others."

"Bingledy bingledy beep! Got it in one!"

"Bingledy…"

Jonathon patted Myria on the shoulder. "Don't ask. She picks this stuff up from her friends, and there's only half a brain between them."

Jessica punched his arm, playfully. "That's not true, they just turn them off when they get together. And at least I _have_ friends."

"Back to work you three," yelled Aunt Rosemarie from the area of the ovens. "The dough don't bake itself and the flour don't sift itself."

"Sorry ma!" Jessica yelled back. Then in a lower voice, "See, the man always trying to get you down."

* * *

On prior agreement, Cheery returned each afternoon and escorted Myria back to the hotel. Myria had been pleasantly surprised the second day when Jonathon had said he felt well enough to walk with them.

"They can survive without me for the afternoon, now that Jessie's back in full swing."

So instead they walked on past the hotel and up Peach Pie and Broadway to The Maul, doing what Cheery had termed "window shopping," which seemed to consist solely of commenting on things you did not really wish to purchase.

It was on the way back that Cheery, lagging slightly behind, stopped and frowned slightly. "Myria, do you smell that?"

Myria looked at Jonathon, who shrugged, inhaled gently through her nose. Soft currents of air, bearing its kaleidoscope of Ankh Morpork odors wafted through nasal passages. Thousands upon thousands of molecules impacted olfactory receptors, triggering them and sending an equal or greater number of nerve impulses to the brain for filing and interpretation into broad categories: food smells. Human smells. Animal smells. Plant smells. She gave Cheery a quizzical look.

"Cheery, I smell many things. Can you be more specific?"

"Yeah. It's a sort of funk… like…"

Just then, the wind changed direction slightly, and Myria picked up an entirely different cocktail of odors, which her brain helpfully translated. "Does it smell like… a damp floor covering in a public urination facility?"

Jonathon laughed but had a slightly shocked look on his face. "Well that's pretty descriptive, and horrifying."

Cheery just looked thoughtful. Being around male members of the watch and Igor's lab had given her come insights she'd rather not have been exposed to. "Hmm… That's the one."

Memory linked up with smell, providing an image to go along with it. It was amazing how closely smell was linked to memory. "Ah, I am familiar with that creature."

Jonathon gave her a look. "What kind of a creature?"

"It is a dog."

The smell reached Jonathon's nose, and he grimaced. "You're kidding me. That's horrible."

"Oh Fanks," came from an alley nearby.

Myria began moving toward the darkened alley entrance. "I assure you, I am not. Can you excuse me for a moment?" Cheery made to follow. "No it is safe, I assure you."

"Myria."

"Trust me Jonathon. It is just a… 'nice doggy'."

"Har har," wafted from the alley. "Never been called that b'fore."

Making it to the alley entrance, she closed her eyes for a moment to allow them to adjust to the dim light, then opened them and, following the smell, bent down and faced an even darker spot framed by some refuse and a couple of boards, where a small and very ratty looking dog appeared.

"Ah, my friend Gaspode."

"Right. Friend." An ear went up and down. "I seen what you did to them men, missy. Not sure bein' yer friend is exactly good for the longevity sort o' fing."

Myria felt a sudden disappointment. "You saw?"

"And smelled." Both ears went back. "Widdled meself too, you c'n be sure."

She grimaced. "I am sorry. I was not myself at the time."

Gaspode tilted his head to one side. "Not yerself. I spose you wuz some other freaky lady what looked like you, floated above the street, and turned stuff to dust." He scratched. "Yeah, well I just hope that lady doesn't show up again then."

"I hope that as well. But if you know this, then why are you here?"

"Way I figured it, bein' yer friend might be risky, but one thing for sure, bein' yer enemy is worse." His voice went muffled as he gnawed on at his side. "Better fafe than roadkill fez I."

"I see. Yes that is logical. Thank you."

He turned a very canny look on her, and tried to work the taste out of his mouth. "Fink nuffin of it. Though, 'nuther steak wouldn't go amiss. Maybe accidentally left out just behind the bakery, if you get me?"

"I shall see what I can do."

"Myria, who are you talking to in there?"

"The 'nice doggy', Jonathon. Do not be concerned."

"That'll go over well. But enough o' that. Word is that some o' Snakes cronies are still mucking about, and they're out to get you."

"But why would this be so? I no longer have the gold."

"Search me," scratches, "or better not. Mebbe it's personal-like?"

"Thank you Gaspode. You are a good friend."

* * *

Myria, were you actually talking to a dog in there? Or was that a joke?

"I was not joking. It is a long story."

"I'll take your word for it. Stranger things have happened."

"Yes. And shall likely continue."

* * *

The next morning, Jessica caught Myria hiding a rather expensive steak behind some boxes in back of the bakery, and said not a word.

* * *

[1] Because everyone knows that the only real purpose in life is having a place for your stuff. You may be away from home, but you know you must be ok, cause you have a place for your stuff.

**[A/N: Thank you to all that have stuck with me thus far. Hope you are still enjoying it. Please drop me a message or a review and let me know, feedback is always a treat. Thanks!]**


	29. A Clash of Titans

**[A/N: Thanks again to my regular readers and most especially to Bookworm Gal, Kristina, MJ, Mikell, SSC, and Fledge. Your comments are what keep me writing. Thank you.]**

**29 A Clash of Titans**

In the Rats Chamber[1], Lord Vetinari surveyed the four… _anthropoids_ seated before him.

Well, two were seated.

A third was rather small, drooling slightly, and cradled in the lap of the first.

The fourth had some difficulty with the whole seating concept and was, more or less, draped over various portions of the chair and table in front of it. It was the best he could do really. On the table in front of it was a largish bowl containing bananas, oranges, and a couple of coconuts.[2]

"This is, perhaps, not what I had in mind," mused Vetinari quietly, as he took in the sight of a Lady Sybil Ramkin-Vimes getting baby Sam to sleep after just finishing providing a most nutritious meal. This vision was only topped by the sight of a fourteen-stone[3] orangutan carefully consuming an orange and throwing the peels behind his chair.

Lord Selachii[4] made vague noises of discontent. "I agree, Lord Vetinari, it's most irregular, indeed."

The Librarian stopped working on the orange for a moment, gave Lord Selachii an inscrutable look, and then turned his attention to baby Sam. "Ook?"[5]

Baby Sam, by now fully asleep, was carefully collected by his nursemaid and taken to a makeshift nursery that had been set up in one of the less-used parlours of the palace. Vetinari's clerks really didn't know what to make of the whole thing, but were playing along gamely. It would be a miracle if he was not buried in floppy bunnies and makeshift toys by the end of the week.

"Most definitely irregular, indeed." Selachii added, staring into his lap. It seemed the Librarian, distracted by the small human, had misfired and a piece of orange peel had landed squarely on Selachii's trousers.

Vetinari's eyes followed the trajectory of another peel. "I do see your point, my lord. But, we must carry on with what we are given. Drumknott, will you be so unkind as to bring in Mister Slant? We may as well begin."

Upon entering and taking in the sight before him, Slant wasted no time. "Lord Vetinari, I _must_ object. Insisting that the city's choice for the panel be a wizard from Unseen University is one thing. But _this_, this borders on the insulting."

The room went suddenly very still.

"Ook?"

It was a quiet, dangerous interrogative. The kind that you can only get from an anthropoid who is trying to convey, in the most gentle but firm way possible, that he can tear off your own limbs and beat you into a formaldehyde-laced cloud of microparticles with them.

Slant stepped back, his righteous ire fading remarkably quickly. "On the other hand. We see no actual… _prohibition_ of sentient nonhumans serving in such matters." He cleared his throat and put on what was supposed to be a "game face" but looked more like he was attempting to pass his own lower colon. "It appears we are setting new precedent. I look forward to publishing an article in the Ankh Journal of Jurisprudence regarding the results."

"Excellent. And do you have any objections to the other two?"

There, unnoticed by Slant, the quiet sound of a door opening behind him as he considered. "None, though I must say I am surprised to see Lady Sybil agreeing to represent someone she has no knowledge of, who in addition has no known connections to Ankh Morpork at all, and not least is of _unknown_ _character_ in a foreign-"

"_Objection!_" The door slammed shut for maximum effect, and a figure, dressed in an ill-fitting suit and sweating profusely, stormed toward the table with a rolling gait. "If we're starting the hearing already, then as the requestor we get first-"

Slant's turned, and his face twisted into an expression not seen since Mad Lord Winder ate a 15lb block of cheese. "_YOU!_"

Bodkins Hardlee turned his soft round face toward Slant, and smiled the smile of a cat that has just consumed an entire pet shop's worth of canaries. "You damn betcha."

"You _dare_ to show your pestilent-" There were at least two gasps in the room at that. The Librarian actually stopped peeling his orange. _Maybe_, he thought, _the whole thing _wouldn't_ be as boring as one of Ridcully's pep talks._

"Oh I dare, Tinderbox."

Lord Selachii's eyebrows went up at that, and Slant's face turned from powdery white to something approaching washed-out mauve. "You… you _amateur_, _showboating_…"

"Genius?" Hardlee supplied helpfully, accompanied by a big grin.

"Philanthroper!"

Hardlee gave a mock gasp, "you _wound_ me sir!" Then pointed at Slant's trousers. "Liar liar, pants on fire!"

Sybil and Selachii gasped as Slant jerked around, almost losing one of his arms in the process, frantically looking for smoke or flames for a few seconds[6] before realizing there was nothing there. "You _insolent_…" his jaw worked, with a sound of bone grinding on bone. "I will have you before the guild for this ins-"

There was a loud smash as Drumknott, in full view of Vetinari, dropped a rather expensive rat-themed vase to the floor, where it shattered into pieces. "Oh dear, Drumknott, how unfortunate." Vetinari surveyed the temporarily quiet room. "Though it appears to have served its purpose." He smiled thinly. "_Gentlemen_, and I use the word in its broadest possible capacity, while I am sure everything you have alleged about each other is purely nonfiction, I am left to assume that Mister…" he gestured at the newcomer.

"Hardlee, my lord."

"I am left to assume that Mister Hardlee is, in fact, Lady LeJean's advocate? I had understood from certain quarters that she had been unable to procure one. Are you in fact a member of the Guild in good standing?" Drumknott leaned in, whispering. "Oh? I see. Yes." He cleared his throat. "Well, it appears you are in _some_ sort of standing with the guild, at least as of this moment."

Vetinari leaned forward, splaying his hands on the table. "As to his objection, I am afraid, Mister Slant, that Mister Hardlee is correct. This is not the proper time, nor venue for discussing either client's virtues, or lack thereof, nor those of opposing counsel."

Slant's jaw worked again and with a cracking sound popped fully out of joint on one side. Grabbing it and shoving it back into place, he managed to respond through clenched teeth. "Very well." _But a reckoning will come for you, _Mister_ Hardlee._

"Now, unless there are any further objections to the chosen panel members themselves?"

There was were several loud and sharp sounds, followed by uncomfortable looks at the Librarian, who could be seen cracking a coconut shell _with one hand_ while scratching himself with the other. He looked up at the silence that spread about the room. "Ook?[7]"

"No? Then it appears my last remaining responsibility here, until a recommendation is reached, is to clarify that as the city's choice, the Librarian is, in fact, the head of this panel."

There was a chorus of protests from all three panel members.

"Ook?!"

"Most irregular"

"Really Havelock. Having a jest is one thing, but I can't abide entertainment at the expense of one of the discs defenseless creatures!"[8] This last from Lady Sybil.

"_Ookeek?!_"

"I assure you, Sybil, that I am quite serious. I'm sure you three will determine the best way to handle this little matter. I, unfortunately, have matters of city governance to attend to, which preclude my enjoying the proceedings. Drumknott?"

Once on the other side of the door and listening the conversation quickly ramp up into recrimination and argument, Vetinari turned to the clerk. "You will inform me if anyone is dismembered or reduced to their component elements."

"Yes milord."

* * *

"Now, how soon shall we begin?" Queried Lady Sybil.

Slant quickly responded, "The more promptly, the better."

Hardlee favored Slant with a roguish grin, thought the effect was slightly ruined as his glasses were slightly askew. "So eager to be rid of my smiling face, Mister Slant?"

"You cannot imagine."

Selachii chose this moment to interject. "Mister Slant. Mister Hardlee. Must you continue this personal attack? I'm sure I speak for us all when I say I would prefer to get to the matter at hand as quickly as possible." Selachii looked at Lady Sybil for confirmation and, to his credit, even waited for a nod from the Librarian. "Now, perhaps we should begin with Mr. Slant."

Slant coughed. "Very well. If you will excuse me for one moment." He went to the door and gestured to two pale-looking clerks from the guild, who immediately entered bearing stacks of several-inch-thick sheaves of paperwork. "You will find that these documents contain a detailed explanation of Lord Rust's ownership of the gold, along with citations of legal precedent. I have taken the liberty of having copies provided for each of you." He turned a disdainful eye on Hardlee. "Including opposing counsel, though I doubt _Mister_ Hardlee will bother to read it."

Lord Selachii gave the document a baleful look, and Sybil paled slightly at its sheer size. The Librarian, on the other hand, took it in stride. Why, it was almost like a book, what with the pages all bound together like that.

Books, those he could deal with. If only Slant would shut up.

"Now, to provide a brief verbal overview of our position..."

* * *

"How did the first session fare?" Myria asked Hardlee late that evening at the hotel.

"Fine fine. Slant buried them under paperwork, which only the Librarian will probably read, and blathered on for two hours about legal precedent of _quod rebus omnibus est possessio__**[9]**_. By the end of that, Lord Selachii was ready for a nap, Lady Sybil was feeling a bit uncomfortable, and the Librarian had apparently been reading the entire time and had basically ignored everything Slant had said. I requested a break for lunch, making me the hero of the hour."

"And afterward?"

"I kept it simple. I explained that the gold is very clearly yours, because firstly, Lord Rust could not possibly have gold of that quantity and not beat every other peer in the city over the head with the fact. And secondly, that it would be stupid for Lord Rust to store it in a residence that he intended to lease out to others, and Lord Rust is clearly not stupid." He thought for a second. "That last may not have been the best argument to make with Lady Sybil."

"Do you mean to say, that she may in fact believe Lord Rust to be stupid?"

"Not as such. But most peers have cultivated a particular form of stubbornness that, to the untrained, can look like stupidity. In Lord Rust's case, sometimes it's difficult to tell the difference even if you know what you are looking for."

"I see. And will this work in our favor?"

"Let us hope so. Otherwise we're even more doomed than I expect."

Myria was surprised at that. "Do you not feel we have a chance at success?"

"Oh I'm sure we have practically _zero_ chance of success! I find it pays to set expectations low, so you are never disappointed. It makes every victory a pleasant surprise. And I _love_ pleasant surprises!" He practically beamed with enthusiasm.

_He believes we are doomed, and he is ecstatic about it. _"I… am not sure that this is rational."[10]

* * *

[1] The Rats Chamber is the conference room at the Palace, so called because it has decorations throughout of…well… rats. Rat frescos. Rat wall paper. Rat carpet. Pictures of rats, not actual rats… we hope. It also has the distinction of having a large axe buried in the center of the conference table, placed there by persons unknown (*cough* Vimes) as a reminder to the city leaders not to get too big for their britches.

[2] Having unlimited tropical fruits available was one of the few demands the Librarian had wrangled out of Ridcully, and there'd been a few raised eyebrows. However, if anyone dared suggest he wear two coconut halves and sing "I wanna be like you-ooh-ooh", they'd be lucky if they didn't end up a small greasy patch on the floor.

[3] About 200 lbs / 89 kilos.

[4] Lord Selachii was the patriarch of one of the more stuffy peerages in Ankh Morkpork. Basically take any stereotypically stuffy noble with a limited grasp of how the common people live, and you're on the right track.

[5] Translation: "What do you have against baby humans?"

[6] When you are a several-hundred year old zombie, the possibility of going out in a blaze of glory begins approaching a certainty.

[7] Translation: "What?! I had an itchy!"

[8] One of Sybil's failings is her absolute inability to assign any negative characteristics to animals and similar creatures*****. A dragon could singe every hair from her head, attempt to bite her ear off, and she would still insist that the poor dear was probably just acting out due to prior mistreatment. It is this same mindset that allowed her to ignore the fact that the Librarian outweighed her and could arm-wrestle an elephant… and win. ***** Except spiders. Those suckers show their furry multi-eyed faces around Ramkin Manor, and they get the shoe.

[9] Roughly translated as "It's mine, I have it, and you don't. So there."

[10] Had Myria more life experience, a comment like that would probably have her slowly backing away and checking the location of any convenience exits or open windows. Fortunately or unfortunately, she had not yet perfected her loony radar.


	30. Monkey Business

**30 Monkey Business**

It had been two days since the first session of the Panel of Peers[1], and Myria had found the wait tiresome. Hardlee had explained that they had likely spent the time discussing both his and Slant's opening arguments. Finally, the third morning, he had arrived at the hotel with Cheery bearing word that Myria's presence had been requested. "They simply wish you to answer a few questions. With me present, of course. And after that, both I and Slant will be able to ask you follow-up questions if we feel the panel didn't bring out a particular point."

Leaving Cheery outside to trade insults with the Palace Guards, Hardlee and Myria they reached the atrium to the hall, where Myria paused. She was hesitant to ask the question, because she suspected she already knew the answer, but…

"It is my understanding, that it is common practice to discuss potential questions with your own counsel before such an event?"

Hardlee shook his head. "Maybe so, but I prefer not. Just answer their questions truthfully. If you get in a bind, look over at me and I'll try to bail you out."

"But, Mr. Hardlee, what if I know something that might be important, and because you do not ask for the information you are unaware of it? What if the opposing counsel brings it out before you can?"[2]

"Bah. How should I know what might be important, and what is just extraneous information that would distract us? Besides," he removed his glasses and began polishing them vigorously, "as an attorney, I have survived on the premise that practically _nothing_ the opposing counsel says has any bearing on the case at hand." He laughed, but Myria could not see what was so amusing. "Are you ready?" He gestured toward the door to the Chamber of Rats.

"I… feel very unsettled."

"That's just nerves."

She considered. "Yes, I believe it does involve involuntary nerve impulses."

There was a long pause as Hardlee looked at her carefully. "Can you not do that after we go through those doors?"

"Do what?"

"Talk like that."

"I am not sure. I believe it depends on which aspect of my speech you refer to."

"Well try. And remember. When someone asks you a question, you answer _only_ the question, with as few words as possible. Got it? If _I_ want more information, I'll ask for it. If old "Deadwood" wants more information, he'll have to work for it. But _do not lie_. That would invalidate the entire proceedings and look very bad for you.

"But, is not omission a form of lying?"

"Absolutely not. And try to relax. At first they will just want to meet you and put you at ease. These are your Peers, not magistrates, so it's likely to be informal. _But_ don't be fooled into believing they actually like you just because they are polite. Understand?"

"I believe so."

"Good. Let's go."

* * *

Myria's first reaction to entering the room was an intense desire to empty her stomach contents.

It was not the rat motif. Though the images were everywhere.

Nor was it the sight of the panel members. She barely noticed them at first.

I was the axe. A very large axe. Imbedded firmly in the conference table.

"Myria, you look like you've seen a ghost." Hardlee hissed. "What is it?"

"It is the… axe. I have had quite negative experiences involving… axes."[3]

The human male peer, who could only be Lord Selachii, cleared his throat, drawing her attention. "Ah, Lady LeJean. I must apologize for the… barbarity of the Patrician's little décor. I am as incensed as you. I have protested several times that it sets entirely the wrong tone during meetings." He looked at the axe sourly. "Unfortunately Vetinari will have his little jokes."

"I… thank you, my lord. I do find it quite disturbing."

"Indeed. We shall give you time, after the introductions to collect your wits, madam."

"Thank you, my Lord Selachii, I presume?"

"Indeed." Selachii smiled, causing his rather impressive mustache to rise, apparently in an attempt to hide inside his likewise rather impressive nostrils. "It is a pleasure to meet such a lovely lady, and obviously one of," he cast what might have been a disapproving glance at Lady Sybil, "delicate constitution. I would wish we could have met under other circumstances."

Myria found herself warming slightly, though the gleam of light on sharp metal in the center of the conference table kept vying for her attention out of the corner of her vision.

"Hmph. Don't mind Albert, madam. He's a hopeless flirt, though harmless even so." The female peer interjected. Selachii's face pinched slightly at her remarks, but Myria wasn't sure what that signified. Myria turned to the speaker, and found her to be a woman, certainly, but far from delicately built. She made the obvious guess. "And you must be Lady Ramkin-Vimes?"

"Please, call me Sybil."

"I am not sure it would be appro-"

"Hogwash. Why we are practically friends already, since you have become well acquainted with my husband."

"Yes, my… Miss Sybil. Commander Vimes was most kind, even when the execution of his duty was unpleasant."

"That's my Sam. And don't I know it, too." She gestured to her right. "And have you met the Librarian?"

Myria turned to the third member of the panel, immediately remembering what Jessica had told her previously about the University Librarian. Observing him quietly for a moment, she mused aloud before she could stop herself. "Hmm… it appears that my friend Jessica was wholly mistaken. You are not, in fact, a monk-"

"Don't say it!" Lady Sybil's eyes were wide, and Lord Selachii looked poised to crawl under the table.

Myria turned to Lady Sybil, then back to the Librarian, clearly puzzled. "Why should I not properly identify this individual as a member of the genus Pongo, species appearing to be agataeus?"

"Ook!"

Myria frowned, and based on intonation hazarded a guess. "You are welcome?" The Librarian nodded vigorously. "Although I must say am not aware of previous instances of the Great Agataean Orang Utan holding administrative posts at Universities."

"Ookeek." He raised his shoulders, in a passable substitute for a shrug.

"Yes, there is indeed, a first time for everything that occurs. If this _I_ am well aware. It is a pleasure to meet you."

The Librarian likewise found himself pleased to find at least one entity that did not require an education on ape etiquette at first meeting. However, he also found himself slightly puzzled. The Myria person certainly _looked_ like a human, but there was definitely something odd about her. _This bore further investigation.__**[4]**_

Lord Selachii again cleared his throat. The man seemed in a perpetual state of vox interruptus. "Please do feel free to take a few moments to collect yourself, madam. We are still waiting for Mister Slant to arrive." Whereupon, Hardlee took her by the arm and maneuvered her to the far corner of the room.

"That went better than I expected," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

_I fail to see how it could have gone worse than you expected_, Myria thought,_ considering your philosophy regarding expectations_.But she didn't see the point in saying so out loud.

Hardlee regarded her carefully for a few seconds. "Ah, you _are_ learning."

"I am sorry?"

"About the first rule. You remember what that was?"

"I believe it was-"

"Answer the question I asked you, not the question you wanted to answer."

"I am _attempting_ to answer the question."

Hardlee shook his head. "No, you are not. I made a statement first, but I _asked_ a question that only required a yes or a no, and you attempted to answer with an essay."

"I see. I am sorry, I did not-"

"_Stop right there_. Now you're violating Rule Number Two. _Don't volunteer information or explain yourself unless they ask for an explanation!_" He hissed.

Myria sighed. _This is going to be difficult, if not impossible._

There was the sound of Slant entering the room behind them. "There's old Tinderbox. Let's get started, shall we?"

Myria thought carefully. "No?"

"_Now_ you're learning. But that was the wrong answer."

* * *

Three hours later, Myria was exhausted, which made no sense at all. She had barely exerted herself physically, but her body insisted it had been put through an extremely trying experience. Her back ached. Her limbs felt oddly light and heavy at the same time. And her head seemed to contain a fog.

_It was_, she decided, _exactly like being questioned_. _And it was truly horrible._

It wasn't that they were rude. Even Mister Slant had been coldly polite, and Lord Selachii had generally been pleasant. Lady Sybil appeared to showed warmth and even empathy.

The Librarian hadn't really asked any questions, and at times seemed more interested in the fruit bowl than the proceedings, but he didn't throw any fruit peelings at her.[5]

No, the horrible part was the _internal war_ she experienced with each question. Every. Single. Question… _each one_ represented a battle between the part of her trying to follow Hardlee's advice, and the part that wanted, desperately, to explain herself. Not just to explain herself, that part of her brain wanted to 'spill her guts' as Jessica termed it. And she knew that urge was stupid. How could that part of her brain desire to do something so stupid? Was it damaged somehow? It was… it was like watching a spinning set of blades, mesmerized, and feeling the intense urge to reach out and touch it… even knowing that doing so would result in being short a digit.

But she managed, barely, for most of the meeting, to both answer the questions and _not lie_ through some verbal gymnastics. For example, with answers like:

-"I am Lady Myria LeJean."

-"Morporkian is not my native language. I also speak Genuan of course. But Morporkian is practically my first language."

-"I have no living family in Genua."

-"I have travelled for much of my life."

-"I brought the gold with me. I have never used a bank before."

The difficult question had come, surprisingly, from Lady Sybil.

"Sam told me that the gold was _inside_ the flagstones of the floor, which seems impossible. How did you manage it?"

The question had come like a hammerblow, and she could feel her mouth opening, the answer forming even as part of her screamed at the other part to not answer.

Then she was saved.

"I OBJECT!"

Myria turned in shock to find it was, not Mister Hardlee, but _Mister_ _Slant_ who had raised the objection.

_This makes no sense. _Her whirling brain tried to take that information and fit it into one of several boxes she had been constructing in her head to put human behavior into. This particular bit seemed to have far too many corners and bits sticking out, and no matter how she spun it around, it would not be filed away properly. She looked helplessly at Mister Hardlee for an explanation.

Hardlee stood, mouth agape for a moment. Then his mouth snapped shut and worked. When he finally spoke, it was as if each word was a struggle. "I…" he swallowed and seemed about to be sick. "_agree_ with opposing counsel. I would like some time to confer with my client regarding this question."

Lady Sybil looked at Slant and Hardlee suspiciously. "Hmph. Well this must be a first. And _you_, young man, look like you just ate a live toad. Perhaps you would like a break? I could certainly do with one and I am sure it is mealtime for baby Sam." She turned to the other two peers. "How about you two?"

"Ook."

"I agree."

Sybil nodded. "Very well, how about we pick back up after the noon meal?"

* * *

As soon as they were outside the room, and outside Slant's earshot, Hardlee turned on Myria. "What did she_ mean_ the gold was inside the flagstones?"

"What she said was accurate."

Hardlee stared at her like she had grown tentacles on her forehead. "That is impossible!"

Myria shrugged and shook her head sadly. "It is not."

Hardlee spun around, paced a few steps, then spun back. "Why didn't you _tell me_?"

Myria felt her hands tighten. _Is he testing me? Or has he truly forgotten? Or is he simply lying to himself?_ She gritted her teeth but got the answer out. "_Because you wouldn't let me! _You insisted that I not volunteer any information."

"Oh. Right. Well sometimes it works better than others."

His admission caught Myria by surprise. "I see. Yes. But… why did Mister Slant object, if he knew it was impossible?"

Hardlee rolled his eyes, some of his sarcasm recovered. "Because it _is_ impossible! He doesn't know how you did it, and he knows that Rust can't answer the question _either_. He's afraid that either you would able to answer the question, which would shoot his argument all to hell, or that they would ask the same question of Rust, and he can't answer it either. He wasn't willing to take the risk."

"I…. see." Myria turned this over and over in her head, and had to admit that it did make a sort of sense. She could sense Hardlee doing the same.

Finally he continued in a quieter, queer sort of tone. "You… really put gold inside flagstones?"

Myria sighed. "Yes, Mister Hardlee."

"Can you demonstrate it for the panel?"

"I cannot."

"We're doomed."

"I had believed that to already be a given."

"Yeah, but now we're _really_ doomed." He heaved a deep sigh himself. "Let's go eat something."

* * *

[1] Or, as Jessica had begun calling it, the Nexus of Nobs. And no, Myria had not found it amusing.

[2] Such as, for example, the facts that she was not human, had conspired to destroy all life as we know it, and had already left behind a body count / dust pile of Auditors and humans that would have impressed General Tacticus. You know, trivial stuff.

[3] For those who have not read "Thief of Time" by Terry Pratchett, one of the other Auditors-turned-human became very handy with using an axe to enforce his authority. It wasn't pretty.

[4] Translation: _Ook. Ookook. Ookeekook._

[5] Slant on the other hand had been the target of two orange peels, a banana peel, and a near miss by a coconut halfshell. Myria considered that encouraging.


End file.
